Turning Points
by StrongatHeart
Summary: Sometimes things happen that shouldn't, and change your life forever. What if Justin wasn't so lucky at the party in 214?
1. Changes

**Title: Turning Points**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Queer as Folk. **

**WARNING: Rape**

**A/N: I know this has been done about a million times before, but the plot's in my head, and it's not leaving until I personally kick it out, so that's what I'm going to do. It's dark, and angsty, and a little outside my comfort zone, but I guess challenge is a good thing. **

.

There are some things that divide your life into a before and after. Some turning points that, once you reach, you can never go back. You start to think such things as _"Oh, right, that happened back before..." _or _"That hasn't happened since..." _

And things are just never quite the same. No matter how close they come to it, no matter how much normalcy you weave back into your life after the fact, some things just change it forever. Or is it that they change _you? _Make it so that you don't feel things the way you used to? You don't see life, people, yourself, in the same light. You don't feel the same because you _aren't _the same.

Things happen. Life changes. Sometimes permanently.

.

_Daphne_

It was the middle of the night, and I'd woken up to a desperate banging that I eventually recognized to be someone at my door. Wondering who it could possibly be at—I checked the clock—three thirty-six in the morning, I went to answer it, peering through the peephole.

I threw the door open immediately. "Justin!?"

At once, despite the lateness of the hour, I was awake. Intense alarm did that to you. And alarm was the exact emotion coursing through me like fire, burning away any last residue of exhaustion.

A blind bat could see that something was wrong with him.

He had been crying. His eyes were swollen and red, and his cheeks glistened with dried tear tracks. He looked up at me hopelessly when I opened the door, and I don't think I've ever seen someone look so fucking lost.

"Can I come in?" his voice was low and pleading. Wordlessly, I stepped aside to let him pass, and shut the door behind us.

"What happened?" I demanded. He had his back to me, and I could tell by his sniffling and the way his shoulders shook that he was crying again. I stepped closer and laid a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped at the contact. "Justin, what happened?"

"Can I stay here?" he asked, turning to look at me. I nodded.

"Yeah...yeah, I'll get you a blanket. You want the couch?" I offered.

He shook his head. "Thanks."

I looked at him. Really looked at him, as though trying to find out what was going on just by staring. "Justin..."

"Please?" I wasn't sure what the 'please' was for. Please what? Please don't ask questions? Please let him stay? I didn't know, and I didn't ask.

"Did Brian do something?" I guessed, not moving an inch toward getting that blanket.

His head snapped up. "Brian? No."

But I'd known him far too long, and there was something about the way he answered that. "Justin, if he did something..."

"He didn't."

"Did you find him fucking someone again?"

"No! Brian didn't do anything," he assured me, his breathing beginning to quicken, coming in sharp, panicked little gasps as he tried to calm himself. I hadn't seen him have a panic attack since right after the bashing, and I was grateful when he mostly managed to get his breathing back under his control on his own.

However, I still wasn't satisfied with his answer. Something wasn't right here.

"Just...don't tell him I'm here, okay?" he pleaded, eyes wide and imploring.

"Okay," I agreed softly. But I was getting scared now. Why would he not want Brian to know he was here? "But, Justin...look, if he..." I hesitated, not sure if I should go here. "If he...hurt you or something...I mean, in a...different way than..."

"He didn't do anything!" Justin snapped. "Just don't tell him I'm here, _please, _Daphne. I can't go home."

We stared at each other. His eyes desperate and begging me to understand, mine pleading with him to help me do so.

"I'll get you the blanket."

He went to sit on the couch while I went and found a spare duvet for him to use, my mind racing. Justin was here, crying and plainly upset. Justin was here, and not at home with Brian. Justin obviously didn't want Brian to know anything about this. _Why _did he not want Brian to know? What was he so afraid of?

Well, there was one thing...

I tried to tell myself that it was ridiculous. I didn't want to believe it of Brian, and I didn't want to think of it happening to Justin. Besides, Brian would _never _hurt Justin, right? He may be an asshole a lot of the time, but Brian would never hurt him. Not physically, at least.

I wasn't sure why I was even thinking that, it was pretty ridiculous, when you considered it. It was just...weird. Justin showing up here in the middle of the night, crying and looking nothing short of completely distraught. He hadn't even been this way when we'd walked in on Brian fucking zucchini man. He'd been upset, yes. He'd cried, sure. But something else was off, here.

Returning to my living room, I discovered Justin curled up on the couch, eyes closed but tears leaking out from under his eyelids. He opened them quickly when he heard me approach.

"Thanks," he said quietly when I draped the blanket over him. He had his knees pulled up to his chest, and suddenly seemed so much smaller than I ever remembered seeing him. Usually, he was lively and, despite his physical size, larger than life, but now he just seemed so incredibly small and scared and sad. This wasn't Justin. At least not the Justin I'd grown up with. Not the Justin I knew and loved.

"Justin..."

"Thanks, Daphne," he said, sniffing again. "Thank you."

Coming to a decision, I knelt down on the floor in front of him. "Look, what's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit. You show up at my door at three thirty in the morning, crying, and you tell me you can't go home. What's going on?" I demanded gently.

Another sniffle. More tears. "Just go. Go back to bed."

"I'm not leaving you out here like this," I said firmly. "Now tell me what happened. I'm not leaving till you do."

He closed his eyes again, as more tears wet his lashes. He gave a nearly silent sob, his body lurching with the force of it. "I can't."

"You can't tell me?" He shook his head no. "Why not?"

"I just can't, Daphne. Please..."

"Look Justin..." I began again. "Just let me call Brian."

"No!" he shot me down immediately, fear washing over his features. "Don't call Brian."

Well, I was getting something out of him, at least. Maybe not answers, but it was better than him denying anything was wrong at all. "Why not?"

"Because. I can't..."

"You can't what?" I prompted, laying a hand on his arm. My stomach twisted uncomfortably as I realized he was shaking. "Justin, why don't you want to see Brian? Are you guys having a fight or something?"

He shook his head again.

"Then what?"

"I just...can't...with him," he muttered.

"You can't what?" I asked again. I desperately wished I knew what to say or do to get him to start talking, instead of going in circles with these repetitive, unhelpful answers he was giving me. It wasn't much to go off of. All I knew so far was that he was hurt in some way, and he either didn't want Brian to know he was here, or didn't want him to know he was hurt. He didn't want Brian involved at all, which was unusual in itself.

"Justin, please," I begged softly, rubbing his shoulder gently. "Please, talk to me." I soothingly rubbed down his trembling arm, running my fingertips over the light skin poking out from under his jacket. "You want to take that off? Come on, I'll help you..."

"No!" he shouted, jerking his arm away.

I jumped, surprised and confused. "You don't want to take your jacket off? What, are you going to sleep in it? Come on, I'll put it in the closet for you."

"No," he moaned, burying his face in my couch.

"Okay, okay," I whispered. "Hey, maybe we can go shopping tomorrow?" I suggested. So it was an exceedingly lame attempt to cheer him up, but I was trying. "That jacket looks like its seen better days."

"It's not mine," he mumbled, his voice muffled by the couch.

A crease formed between my eyebrows as I frowned. "What do you mean, it's not yours? Who's is it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I just grabbed it."

"You stole it?"

It took a moment for him to get his crying under control enough to answer me. "I guess. I couldn't find my shirt, and this was laying there so I just took it."

"Why couldn't you find your shirt?" I asked, starting to feel like we were getting somewhere, though I was becoming increasingly certain that that place wasn't somewhere I wanted to go.

But I needed to. For him.

"I took it off. He wanted me to take it off."

"Who did?" So there was a he? And why was he, whoever he was, wanting Justin to take off his shirt? It didn't sound like he was talking about Brian...

He sobbed into the cushion, still not looking up at me. I was definitely scared, now. Not that I wasn't before, but a definitive sense of dread had coiled itself inside my stomach, twisting my insides in its vice-like grip.

"Sap."

I frowned. "Who's Sa...wait, your boss?"

What did that sleaze have to do with this? Justin had mentioned his new job dancing at Babylon a few weeks ago. All about the job, the rough hours, the way Brian hated everything about it and made sure Justin knew it. And from what he said, Gary Sapperstein, better known as the "Sap," sounded like a complete scumbag.

He nodded miserably. "I was decoration. Or I was supposed to be."

I forced my racing heart and churning stomach to calm themselves, taking a deep breath before speaking again. "Okay...I need you to start at the beginning. What _exactly _happened, Justin? You need to tell me right...right now," my voice broke painfully on the last word.

He took a shaky breath of his own. I waited in silence for him to speak, for so long that I thought he'd fallen asleep. But finally, he spoke.

"There was a party. At Sap's house. I had to go." I didn't say anything, just waited for him to go on. He sniffed again. "So I was there, and...God, I was so _stupid, _Daph!" he cried suddenly, surprising me with his outburst. "I was so fucking _stupid."_

"Shh...it's okay...tell me what happened."

"I took a joint off him. I didn't want to, and I _knew _it was stupid, but I did it anyway. Only I don't think it was just a joint. There was something else...and then he gave me a drink..."

He paused here, desperately trying to control his sobs enough to continue. "So I took the drink... and...he said he wanted to show me around his place."

I squeezed his arm, silently urging him to go on.

"There was a room," his voice was deadly quiet now, and I could tell we were nearing the reason for all of this. Whatever had Justin so fucking miserable, I was about to hear it. "There was a...a swing..."

"A swing?" I repeated.

"Sex swing," he choked out.

I literally felt everything in me go blank. I forgot to breath, forgot to think. Everything in me just froze at those words.

"Justin..." I said weakly. _Please, _I begged to whoever was listening, _please don't let it be that...don't let __it be what I'm thinking...let me be wrong..._

"He wanted me to go in it," Justin continued, sobbing harder than ever. "I told him I didn't...I didn't want to, but..."

"Oh God, Justin..." I had tears in my eyes, now. Any hope of getting anything else out of him was lost, drowned in his sobs as he continued to shake and cry on my couch. I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around him as best as I could from that position, and he returned the hug gratefully, clinging to me like a lifeline.

"Justin..." I moaned. "Oh, _Justin..."_

He still hadn't told me _exactly_ what had happened. He didn't need to. I _knew. _It was obvious what had transpired. I knew what had been done to him.

We laid there for a long time, me holding him, both of us crying into each others' shoulders, until he finally fell asleep. There was room enough for both of us on the couch, so I pulled the duvet up around us and snuggled in beside him.

He awoke twice, screaming and thrashing and crying. And if I had gone to sleep that night, I was sure I would've had nightmares, too. As hard as I was trying to keep the images out of my mind, I quickly discovered it was impossible. They came, unbidden and unwanted, and once they were there, they refused to leave.

So all night, I lay there, feeling him breathing next to me, seeing him being tortured in my mind's eye. I had stopped crying, but my mind had since filled with a black, dark rage like I had never known before. He was my best friend. My sweet, bright, wonderful Justin, whom I loved. And I wanted nothing more than to murder the person who had hurt him.

So rather than focus on the terrible images in my mind, I tried to force my imagination on something more darkly satisfying and productive. Mainly, the hundreds of ways one could murder someone using the most painful methods known to humans. Ways to ensure that fucking _piece of shit _paid for what he had done to my best friend.

It was well past dawn before I finally fell asleep.


	2. Stained

**A/N: So this was kind of a hard chapter for me to write. It's in Justin's POV, and he's in a pretty dark place right now, obviously. Next chapter, I think, will be Justin's first encounter with Brian. **

_Come on, Justin, get in...you'll love it, I promise...be a good boy now...get in the swing...GET IN!_

I jerked awake, a strangled cry tearing from my throat and breaking the silence of the morning.

Breathing heavily, I took in my surroundings and, slowly, I began to come back again.

Morning. Light streaming in through the windows. Comfort and warmth beneath and around me. Not dark or cold or scary. I took a deep breath.

I was safe.

There was a small groan from the space next to me, and I looked down to see Daphne shifting on the outside edge of her sofa. The tears already filling my eyes to the brim spilled over at that thought. That she had stayed here with me all night. In fact, I had woken up twice during the night, and she had been there both times, hugging me and holding me and soothing me until I fell back into another anguished fit of sleep. I didn't know what I would have done, if it hadn't been for her. Don't know where I'd have gone. This was the only place...the only real option.

Of course, there were the obvious choices. In truth, I had already been banging on her door for five minutes when I'd asked myself, _why Daphne's? _

Because I had nowhere else, when I really thought about it. If I'd have gone to Debbie's, that would've been it. She would have forced the truth out of me, and soon everyone would know, and I couldn't take that. Nor could I take her well-intentioned mothering. She'd smother me. And I couldn't handle that right now. She'd smother me herself, and then tell everyone else, Brian, my mother...

My mother's.

I had briefly considered there, too. But I knew I could hide the truth no better from my her than I could from Debbie, and I'd rather die than tell her what had happened. Because if I told my mom what had happened to her son, she'd die a little, too. And I just couldn't do that to her, couldn't force this into her life the way it had been forced into mine. And Brian...

Brian would see right through me. He'd know. Hadn't he warned me about that fucking party? Hadn't he told me? He would know immediately what had happened. And even worse than my mother knowing, was _him _knowing. I honestly didn't think I could take it if he knew.

I wasn't sure what he would do...probably become furious, at me or maybe the Sap...or both...yell and lecture and this hellish nightmare would become impossibly worse. I just knew I couldn't go home last night. I had panicked a little when Daphne had suggested to call Brian...I'd been scared to death she'd do it anyway, despite my pleads not to, but Brian wasn't here, so I was pretty sure she hadn't.

Not unless she'd called and he just hadn't wanted to come find me. What if that was what happened? What if Daphne had called and told Brian what was going on after I fell asleep and he just hadn't bothered to come and get me? What if he was simply too disgusted? What if he didn't want to see me like this? A filthy rape victim...who _wouldn't_ be disgusted?

The ache in my heart intensified at that thought. The one person who I wanted, who I'd always wanted near me, might not want to be near _me_ anymore. He probably wouldn't want to touch me. Not that I really wanted him to...something else that hurt beyond words.

On the other hand, what if Daphne _hadn't_ told him? What if he didn't know, and still expected everything to be the same? I couldn't...there was no way I could have sex. The thought of being touched, or of touching someone else...made me want to vomit. It wasn't just that I wouldn't, but I really think that I_ couldn't. _Just thinking about it made my skin crawl.

But how would he not get suspicious? Or what if he didn't care enough to be suspicious, and just tossed me out on my ass? He...I was almost definitely sure that he...well, I knew that he cared about me. Maybe even loved me. But did he love me enough to keep me around if we weren't having sex? Not that our entire relationship was about sex, but...it was a part of it. A big part. It's always been a form of expression with us. What we can't say in words, we say with our bodies. And if we didn't have that anymore, I didn't know what would happen.

I let out a trembling breath, wiping my eyes on the corner of the duvet Daphne had draped over us, and tried to push Brian out of my mind for now.

Unfortunately, without thoughts of Brian to occupy it, my mind had plenty of other things to concern itself with.

I thought about my dream, which had been one of those rare ones that seem so very vivid and real and that you remember long after you wake up. The type that leave you with that uneasy feeling in your stomach that won't go away for hours...then again, my stomach seemed to be twisted into a permanent sick knot, anyway, so I couldn't be certain it was just because of that.

In the dream, or nightmare might be a more accurate term..I remembered that swing. I could feel...fuck, I could feel the complete and total loss of control over my life just slipping away from me as at least a dozen hands forced me into it...I could feel _them. _All over me, still. Hands and fingers and lips and bodies where they had no right to be, doing things I didn't even allow tricks to do to me. Things I'd only ever let Brian do.

Could I _ever_ let him do those things to me again? Would he give me the chance to let him? Would I ever even _want _to?

I sighed again and attempted to at least cry quietly, so as not to wake Daphne. I didn't want to have to...I knew she would be nothing but kind and gentle and sympathetic and generally a best friend...but right now I really just wanted to exist alone, far away from everything and everyone. I didn't want to be near anything...so far gone that I just wasn't there at all anymore. Devoid of all thought and feeling, I just...I wanted to be nothing.

I closed my eyes, but all I could fucking see was that _face _looming out at me from the darkness. So I just laid there and cried and tried so hard to let go of the dream and let reality fall into its place. I was here now. I was _safe _now. It was a dream, _this _was where I needed to be. I needed to live in the moment, in reality.

Only problem was, that dream now _was _my fucking reality.

Those words, those voices, those hands, those faces... all my reality. All a permanent part of my life now, etched into my mind forever, and I wanted to just claw it out of my skin, just scream and bleed it out. I just wanted it gone.

But it was stuck in me now. It was a _part _of me now. Inside me.

"Justin?"

I jumped.

She had just said my name, and I jumped. Pathetic.

"Morning, Daph," I whispered, trying to smile. It didn't even come close.

I felt her hand on my arm, rubbing soothing circles into my skin.

_Fingernails scratching at my arms and stomach, hands grabbing my thighs and fingers groping..._

And suddenly, I had to move.

I sat up quickly, without warning, nearly knocking her off the couch but just needing space and air and not to be touched.

I moved without thinking, and when the frenzied panic died down and I could think relatively clearly again, I found that my body had deemed the other end of the sofa far enough away. I was hunched over the arm of the couch, gulping down air as though I'd just been drowning, my back to Daphne, eyes closed against the renewed tears pooling within them.

"Justin..." I heard a rustle and felt her behind me. Her voice was low and sympathetic, as I knew it would be, and she wasn't even touching me, but she was close. Too close for comfort. Too close for me to be to her right now, to be to _anyone. _

"I need a shower," I stated.

There was a pause. "Okay. But Justin...well...do you think...I mean I know it's hard, but..." she stammered, her nerves at the prospect of saying whatever she needed to say evident in her voice.

"But what?"

She sighed. "Well...you know...evidence," she said simply, quietly. I didn't move.

Evidence. Proof that he...proof that _they—_there was more than one, definitely more than one—had just...I don't know. I didn't even know what to call it, because 'rape' didn't seem to encompass it all. That one fucking word didn't seem to carry the weight it should.

"I'm sorry to bring it up, Justin, I am, but..."

"I need a shower," I repeated firmly. Everything I've ever heard about...about this kind of thing...I understood it now. The need to be clean. To just wash it away, scrub it out of your skin. It was exactly what I felt now. I felt dirty. I needed to be clean. I _needed _to, because whatever this was had settled under the surface. Trapped inside the skin, inside me... and I needed to scrub it out again.

Evidence... could be washed away, too. And I _wanted _it gone. I wanted every last trace of this removed from my body. I knew where Daphne was coming from, I did, but... really, what was the point of preserving proof? The only reason would be so that I could go to the police...press charges...but that would involve...well, I couldn't do that. I couldn't, so there was no reason that I shouldn't scrub this out of me.

Besides, even if I did go to the authorities...what could possibly happen? Sap...his friends...they'd never get the justice they deserved. If Chris Hobbes was allowed to bash my brains in with a baseball bat, they sure as hell would not care if some disgusting faggot was raped at a party.

Sighing again, Daphne told me to wait while she got me some fresh towels. She returned a moment later, and let me go without another word. It wasn't until I got to the bathroom that I realized that the towels were right where she'd always kept them, on a rack next to the shower, but that her slender pink razor was gone.

I wasn't really sure what to think about that.

She thought I was that desperate. Did she really think I'd...?

Which sparked the question I had no answer for at the moment...did I _want _to?

I pushed the thought away, and slowly began to remove my clothing.

There wasn't much of it. A jacket and jeans. The jeans were mine...I'd found them a few feet from me when I'd woken up...which, I realized, must have meant I'd passed out at some point. I'd been on the floor, still in the same room, but no longer in the swing. I was alone, and I'd recognized my pants, and pulled them on. I was cold and there was an old jacket laying there, so I'd grabbed that, too.

All these thoughts kept flashing through my head. I'd known something wasn't right from the moment I'd woken up...I didn't know where I was or how I had gotten there or what had happened, but I knew something was wrong. I felt fear. Raw, undeniable fear. There was something, I knew..._something_ was just not right, and I tried to grasp onto it but it kept slipping away.

That was when I finally took notice of where I was.

It was...I had been there before for...for _something,_ but what? It was definitely familiar, I _remembered _this place...this place where something important had happened, but what?

I was so...I couldn't even remember _what_ the last thing I remembered was. It was all a blur. A deathly terrifying blur that I could sense more than I could see. I could feel what I felt when it was happening, but I didn't know _what _it was that had happened. I could feel that gentle nudge at the back of my mind, struggling to force its way to the front. I could feel it the way you feel a sad song, one of those with violins and no lyrics and an achingly mournful melody, that you somehow just know is supposed to be sad without any words to define it for you and tell you so.

And still, I could feel that naked form of_ fear. _I'd been scared before. I'd been frightened more times in my life, particularly after the bashing, than I cared to count or admit. But I had never known fear as I did right then. It was raw, and wild, and primal, and desperately human.

And I felt...I was dirty. It was like...my skin felt dirty and _underneath _my skin felt dirty, too, somehow.

I couldn't move. I'd barely had the energy to pull my clothes back on, and I laid, half-conscious, on the floor, until the first hint of a true memory made me shudder.

I was already scared...deep, gut-wrenching fear...but this brought on the panic. I just felt...tightness. Like the whole world was too tight, closing in, and trapping me inside. I felt it in my chest, and suddenly the sense or vision or memory or whatever the fuck it was of bodies pressing in on me flashed behind my eyes.

And I knew. I could feel it. The details were fuzzy, indistinct, but there nonetheless. I felt it, I felt _them;_ I knew certain things had been done to me. And it wasn't necessarily that they were all sharp and clear in my mind, I just felt them and knew they were true, like whispers or shadows or something not quite real. And one by one, little flashes of emotion and recollection would come and go, trickling through my mind and slipping away, like the random thoughts you had right before you fell asleep.

The longer I laid there, the more intense the tug-of-war between the past and present became. It had eventually become a struggle to get myself to focus...fighting the pull of memories and vague sensations at the edges of my awareness...almost giving in...but then my body would throb with pain and I'd be forced back to the moment.

I knew I was scared, and cold, and I hurt all over. I knew that wasn't sweat that felt so sticky, and I knew that my wrists burned, and that I felt raw and filthy and sore in places that I shouldn't be. I knew that I could hear people talking...in another room, it must have been...so there were people still there and they could hurt me if I moved, if I showed them I was alive...

But I also knew I needed to get out, go somewhere else, anywhere else. Just get _out _and as far away from there as humanely possible, and the next thing I knew I was banging on Daphne's door and telling her I'd been raped and crying into her shoulder and waking up the day after.

Fuck, it was the day after...the day after I'd been raped. I was raped last night.

I hadn't looked at myself. I hadn't wanted to see what they'd left, what they'd done to me. I knew, it was impossible not to know, because I _felt _too much...that I was a mess. I knew there had to be bruises and welts and God knew what else, because I felt it, but I'd made it a point not to look and hadn't even let Daphne remove the jacket.

Now, though, carefully uncovering each inch of skin, I was forced to see. I couldn't _not_ look. I had to know what they'd done, exactly how much damage, non-sexual damage, they had done to my body. Of course they couldn't just have sex with me...they'd never let it be just sex, and let me bleed emotionally, on the inside. No, they had to make me bleed physically, on the outside, too.

My eyes were closed as I moved to stand in front of Daphne's mirror, making sure I was far back enough to catch as much of my reflection as the mirror's position above the sink would allow. I took a deep breath, and opened my eyes.

A fresh wave of nausea hit me like a brick wall.

It was like...like a sick, twisted art project...all the colors...

There were bruises. Lots of black and blue and even a horrible yellow color in some places. And red. Some of that red seemed to be broken skin, but other areas looked as though they'd been slapped repeatedly, and hard. Like the type of pink tinge Brian would leave on my ass when he playfully spanked it, only far worse. There was even a hand-print near the top of my ass now, near the hip. My wrists, especially, were...why were_ they _so red? And they still burned. Like the few times as a kid I'd gotten rug burn, from sliding across the carpet too fast. What was that from?

And these welts...who knew what they had used to make those... Twisting, I could see a few on the backs of my legs, and by the sting on my back, I was sure if I could see, I would find them there, as well.

And fuck, was that...? It was. It had to be. I had hopelessly prayed that the sticky substance had been sweat, but...

It wasn't.

Sweat wasn't red. Blood was red. And there shouldn't be blood there.

There should _not _be blood _there. _

But that wasn't the only substance I recognized...there wasn't only blood...there was...

Fuck... _evidence. _

I had their...

I had their DNA. I had _them _on me. They weren't even touching me anymore, but I still had them on me. And they needed to come off, _right_ fucking now.

Only I couldn't quite make my legs move any closer toward the shower.

I wasn't sure if some type of this outward damage had been inflicted internally, as well, or if the sight of my body in this state coupled with the emotional trauma was enough to cause my insides to rebel against me. I couldn't breathe. I felt sick. I wanted to throw up, and suddenly I was able to move again as I hurled myself to the ground in front of the toilet.

I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, but whatever was left in my stomach was emptied into the toilet bowl. I continued to kneel in front of it for a few minutes after, doubled over and crying, wishing it was enough to get it out of me. I'd thrown up the contents of my stomach, but it was still in me. Just like I'd barely stopped crying since last night, but I could never cry enough for this. Could never cry this out. It was still there.

I could never let it just flow out with the tears, until I was cleansed. I was still sobbing, but this pain was beyond tears. No matter how much I screamed or cried or pleaded with the memories to just_ fucking stop..._ they wouldn't.

Just like no matter how much I had screamed and cried and pleaded with _them _to stop...they hadn't.

Eventually, I stood up and flushed the toilet, hoping Daphne hadn't heard me. I kicked my clothes into a pile in the corner. I had nothing else to change into here, but the idea of putting those clothes back on made me cringe on the inside. Maybe I would burn them. When I got back to the loft, and got a change of clothes, I would burn them.

My stomach dropped at the thought of returning to the loft. Not that I didn't want to go home...but he was there. How would I ever hide this from him? On the other hand, how would I ever deal if he found out?

Maybe I could just stay with Daphne. Go back home and get my stuff, then come back here. Maybe she would come with me and help.

It was a good idea, in theory, but...as scared as I was of returning home...I didn't want to stay here, either.

It was safe here. Not that it wasn't at the loft, but here Daphne knew. Here I didn't have to explain. I didn't have to worry about her reaction, or be forced to endure being smothered, or have to deal with trying to make her feel better about this...she'd give me my space. She'd give me whatever I said I needed without question. That's what best friends do. No expectations or explanations for things like this. She'd just let me be.

At home, I wasn't sure I could hide it from Brian. I wasn't sure I could hide, but I also didn't know if I could explain. I didn't know what to expect from him.

Also...I'd dragged Brian through enough crap in my life. The bashing...which, despite never actually saying it, (when did he ever?) I knew he still blamed himself for... it was enough. He didn't deserve to have to go through any more shit because of me.

And_ still,_ despite all of that...and maybe it was selfish but...I wanted to be home.

I loved Daphne. She was the best friend anyone could ask for. I knew she'd take care of me, would do anything for me. I could count on her. But here...I'd just exist.

But at home I had Brian. I had Brian's arms around me, and Brian's chest to sleep on, and Brian's comforting voice in my ear. There with him, I could begin to...the idea was almost more than I could comprehend at the moment, but...there with him, I could begin to heal. He had brought me back after I was bashed, and I didn't know how, but I knew if anyone could save me now, it would be him.

Even after the bashing, when I'd just started practicing walking in crowds with him...whenever I'd freak out half way across the street, and panic and cry and revert all the way back to square fucking one...he'd hold me, tell me it was okay and that I was doing great. I remembered thinking how out of character it was for Brian, especially when I knew perfectly well that I _wasn't _great, wasn't even okay, and had just fallen back more steps than I'd taken forward. Even when I wasn't going anywhere, he made me feel like I was. He gave me...he gave me hope. That was it. He made me feel hopeful again. Like maybe someday, somehow, things would be okay again.

Right now, though, seeing Brian, feeling that hopefulness...it seemed so far off, a pipe dream. I knew it could happen, if he saved me again, but...right now I didn't want to think beyond this moment. The far-too-near future was hazy, obscure...but right here and now was clear and precise. I still needed that shower. I still needed to wash the feel of their hands off me, wash away the filth inside me. I didn't know where that would put me, where I would be after that, but...I knew what I needed right now, and that was something I could handle.

I climbed slowly into the shower and started the water, gasping when it hit me...all the welts and cuts and whatever else was all over me burned like fire. My body was on fire.

Still, that didn't stop me from turning the water almost hotter than I could stand it. If washing it away didn't work, I could always burn it away. Scald it until it let go of me and gave me back my body, untainted and pure, as it had been before.

I _would _get rid of this. I would remove it from my body, whatever it took.

Daphne's bar of _Dove_ was dangerously close to dissolving into nothing by the time I was finished. I'd even used her violently purple body sponge to scrub at my skin, which resulted in nothing but more raw, red irritation.

_And still...it wouldn't...fucking...go..._

It wouldn't come out. It was like a giant black stain on a clean white slate. Irremovable. Irrevocable. Permanent.

And there was a point, one terrible, horrifying moment when I realized this. When it really hit me, and I understood.

This had happened. This was _there, _in me, with me, forever. And there was nothing in the world I could do about it. I couldn't scrub or burn it away, couldn't erase it...I couldn't because essentially, I was trying to erase what had happened, and that was impossible.

No matter what I did, no matter how much I "healed" or how much time had passed, this was with me for the rest of my life.

My whole body gave a lurch in the sudden dry sob that I couldn't keep at bay. My tears mixed with the steaming water from the shower as I sank to my knees, which were suddenly too weak to support me.

That _thing..._that thing that had happened, that horrible incident, that _rape_...was now a part of me. For good.

And the thought made me cry harder than ever.


	3. Real

The shower was cold, my eyes were closed, and I had finally stopped crying as chilled water ran over my shoulders and down my body in rivulets. I hadn't moved in twenty minutes, huddled against the wall, wishing I could just curl up tightly into myself and never have to move again...when there was a knock at the door.

"Justin? You okay?"

I opened my eyes, wiping water off my face, and peeked through the gap between the shower curtain and the wall. The door was locked. Good. I knew Daphne had a key that she kept on that little ledge above the door, but the lock made me feel just a little more secure, somehow.

"Justin? Answer me, right now," her voice became immediately sharper, more insistent.

I cleared my throat, and forced myself to speak, still not moving from my position slumped against the shower wall. "I'm...here," I said. I almost said 'fine,' but that was a lie and we both knew it. "I'll be out in a few minutes."

"You've been in there for an hour. Is everything okay?"

The truth, of course, was no. Everything was not okay. _Nothing _was okay, and I didn't know if it ever would be again. I knew she meant it in a relative sense, but... I just couldn't say it. "I'll...be out in a minute, Daph."

"I got you some clothes, if you want. I'll set them on the counter..."

"No, don't—" I began, but she'd already grabbed the key from above the door and turned it in the lock. There was an audible click as she let herself in. The curtain was drawn in front of the shower, but she didn't even glance in my direction as she set the folded clothes on the counter by the sink, just like she'd said she would, and left. I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until I let out a low stream of air between my teeth, feeling my shoulders relax in relief.

With no small amount of effort and a great deal of pain, I picked myself off the shower floor, and shut off the water. I couldn't hide forever. She'd just come searching for me again, and it was better to be with her out there with clothes on than with her in this tiny space without them.

Purposefully avoiding looking in the mirror, which had steamed over at first but had since cleared as the water cooled, I grabbed a towel from the rack and pulled it around my waist, trying to avoid causing myself any more pain than strictly necessary.

I had become all too aware of the current state of my body in the shower. So many painful blemishes on my skin...bruises, cuts, welts...I'd had them for such a short amount of time, yet I seemed to know exactly where each one was now. It had been a sickening process at first...every time I thought I knew the extent of the damage, I'd find another bruise, another mark...

But now I was reasonably sure I'd properly acquainted myself with this battered version of my body. For example, I knew that if I moved my left arm too far outward, my shoulder started to ache. I knew there were three angry red welts, a half an inch apart, at the top of my right thigh, that I didn't even want to imagine the cause of. And I knew I hurt in places I've only ever hurt after an exceptionally long night with Brian.

I knew there were things that I _could _remember, but kept pushing away. Things I didn't want to remember, that I now bore the full physical indications of.

But as much as I tried_ not_ to know, I still did.

I couldn't forget them. They'd stuck me in that swing. They'd made me helpless. They kept me from fucking moving or doing a thing while they did what they wanted, took whatever they felt they were entitled to.

How could they think they were allowed that? Allowed _me? _After I said I didn't want to...made it perfectly clear they weren't welcome...what the fuck gave them the right to take it anyway?

What gave them the right to do this to me?

After I'd dried off a little, I turned my attention to the clothes Daphne had left me. An over-sized men's sweatshirt she liked to wear at night, and a pair of jeans I think must have been the ones I'd forgotten here a few months ago. I'd spent the night, spilled grape soda all over the jeans, and put on a fresh pair, while Daphne promised to wash the others. She'd gotten the stain out, I noticed, but had never got around to returning them to me.

As long as I didn't have to wear_ those _clothes anymore... I'd rather wear jeans stained with soda than jeans stained with...with _it. _They had that filthy feel now. They had been part of it...they were the shirt that I'd reluctantly taken off and the pants that had been forced off of me...they were filthy and I couldn't wear them anymore. I may be stuck in my skin, but I wasn't stuck in those clothes. Though part of me wished I could just crawl out of my body the same way I had out of those pants...just leave it and find a new one. A clean one. Just shed out of it, fall out of my own life.

I emerged from the bathroom a little while later to find that Daphne had made me breakfast...some toast and a glass of chocolate milk. She sat with me at the table and talked about petty things while I picked at the toast, not remotely hungry. When I was finished, she cleaned up for me and sat back down, fixing me with a serious look.

"Look, Justin..." she began, in a tone that told me at once that I was not going to like what I was about to hear. "I know you probably don't want to, I wouldn't either, but...you need to see a doctor."

"No," I said immediately.

She didn't look at all surprised, as though she'd been expecting this answer from the very start. "You don't know what he did to you..."

"They raped me," I spat. She was quiet for a moment as we just looked at each other, and I knew my choice of words had not gone unnoticed.

Meanwhile, a funny tingle of awareness had just run through me, as well. It was the first time it had been said it out loud. _They raped me..._

They'd raped me.

Suddenly it seemed...a whole lot more real. It was like all of this, everything I was feeling and all that would happen because of this, could be allowed to happen now that it had been validated with words.

"They?" she repeated hoarsely. "There was...there was more than one?" I nodded. "How...how many?" I knew she wanted to hear the answer almost less than I wanted to give it.

I shook my head. "I don't...I can't remember."

"Two?" she asked. "Three?"

"More than that...I don't know, Daphne. I can't...fuck, I can't remember..."

I was crying lightly again. So was she. Not sobbing uncontrollably or anything, but tears fell freely from both our eyes, as hard as we tried to fight them back. Trying to rein in our pain, be _stronger _than our pain long enough to think.

I knew she wanted to hug me, hold me and comfort me by the way her hand kept twitching toward mine. My fist was clenched upon the table, and she kept reaching toward it, as though to hold it, then seemingly thinking better and dropping her own hand back to the table. After my little panic attack this morning, I couldn't blame her. And there was a part of me that wanted to be held and comforted and soothed but...I couldn't stand it right now. I hadn't minded it so much last night...actually, I'd craved it, just needed to know that someone was there, with me...but right now I just...I couldn't.

"That's even...that's even worse, then, Justin," she said. Her voice shook with the effort of holding back tears. "More than...fuck, you need to go the doctor. You don't have to tell anyone what happened. You could say...I don't know, you could make something up. But physically, internally...you don't know what he—they—did. You could be seriously hurt."

A part of me, a very small, angry part, snapped inside my head, s_o what if I was?_

But that wasn't...right. There was a bigger part of me still that knew that, as much as I just didn't _care _right now...it _was _important, and I couldn't just pretend it wasn't. Even if I didn't think so now, even if I ignored it, I would regret it later when it _became_ important.

However, I just couldn't do what I knew I needed to do. It was like my head and my body were operating on two different levels. And right now, with my head confused and frightened and spinning out of control, my body was the superior.

"They'll want to...they'll ask questions," I said desperately.

She sighed. "How...how bad is it?" she asked tentatively. Again, I knew she didn't want to hear the answer. She couldn't want any part of this, but she was forcing herself through it for me.

I looked away. "Not bad," I lied. I couldn't tell her. I couldn't tell her I just looked so...so fucking _abused. _

"You're lying."

"I am not."

"Then take off your shirt," she ordered. I didn't move. "Justin..." she took a deep breath. "I need to see. If you don't want to go to a doctor, I at least need look at you. These kinds of crimes aren't...gentle, and...I'm not a doctor, but maybe we can do something for whatever injuries you have."

I swallowed thickly—and slowly, ever so slowly—began to remove the shirt, avoiding her eyes. A sharp gasp greeted my ears.

"Justin..." she breathed.

I turned tear-filled eyes toward her, and my stomach clenched tightly when I saw her wiping away more tears.

"God..." she whispered. "What did they do to you?"

_Whatever the fuck they wanted. _

Tentatively, she reached out and grasped my hand firmly. I wasn't expecting to be touched, and jumped, but then my grip relaxed within hers. This wasn't...this was fine. Just my hand. Just her letting me know she was here.

It was a few minutes more before we said anything else. It was one of those instances where you say more with silence than you can with words. When just sitting there together, hands grasped tightly within each others, meant more than we could say. It was like, we were sealed together, somehow...in pain, in the knowledge of what had occurred...lost together in thought and emotion, not needing to speak and break it.

"Um..." she said finally, shattering our delicate silence. I glanced up at her. She was trying to be sensible. She was trying to take care of me, do what needed to be done, but...I wasn't sure I could do the same for myself. "Also...I know you probably don't want to think about this, but...you need to get tested, Justin."

I blanched.

Tested.

Tested for...I hadn't even thought about... Fuck, _what if...?_

"I—" I couldn't speak. The words refused to form on my tongue, which didn't matter much since the breath seemed to have died in my throat anyway.

"I'll come with you," she promised. "I'll stay with you the whole time. You don't have to tell them anything."

More tears, distress crashing over me in waves, this time not from what _had _happened, but what _could. _"Daphne, what if I'm..." I started, the beginnings of a panic attack threatening to overtake me. "I don't remember if they...oh God..."

Had they worn condoms? Seeing as they hadn't hesitated to cause me pain however else they'd seen fit, I doubted very much they'd cared about getting me sick. And with those...those fucking sadistic sleazes...who knew what type of diseases they had? What type of diseases did _I _now have?

What if...what if I was positive?

Fuck, I was going to be sick again.

"You've got to do it, Justin. I'm not...I'm not giving you a choice. You're going. I'll come with you, but you've got to go."

"I'm...I'm fucking scared, Daph." It was something I never wanted to admit, but it was the only thing...the only thing I felt right now. The only words that came to mind and the only thought that existed inside my head. I was scared. Fucking terrified. And suddenly I couldn't stand our hands being the only thing touching, and practically threw myself into her arms.

It was another half an hour before we moved.

.

"You okay?"

Daphne gave my hand a squeeze as we made our way slowly down the sidewalk outside the health clinic toward her car. It was taking a while, as there were people passing in front and behind and around us, and every time one of them got too close, I would freeze up. I didn't even mean to do it, it was just...it was like a reflex. Any logical thought in my mind would be replaced by a total, immobilizing panic, until I deemed it safe enough to move again.

I'd first discovered this unpleasant involuntary reaction outside Daphne's apartment building on our way to her car. After a half an hour of the two of us crying and holding each other, and another hour and a half of her trying to convince me to at least go to a local clinic to get tested, I'd finally agreed. It had ultimately taken her threatening point-blank to call Brian and tell him everything, but I had agreed.

We'd gotten outside her apartment, through all the hallways and downstairs without meeting a single soul, but the moment we stepped foot outside the double doors of the building, I couldn't move. It was just like after the bashing. I was afraid...afraid of people and what they could and would do to me, afraid to let them touch me...every brush against my skin making me want to crawl inside myself and hide. Only this time, I had the memories. I had the memories of spidery fingers crawling over me, helping themselves to my body as though they had every invitation...I had the memories of their mouths on me, their skin on mine...I had the haunting sensation of being truly, utterly helpless. They had hurt me. Hobbes had hurt me. What was to stop anyone else from doing the same?

So I stood there, frozen, in front of Daphne's building for so long we were almost late for our appointment.

When we finally arrived, I'd nearly had a fucking panic attack right then and there in the front office. There were so many people...employees and patients and just so many people crammed in such a tiny space, and it was too tight and I couldn't breathe...then Daphne had lead me over to a chair in the corner, away from everyone else, and I'd relaxed just a bit.

When they called my name, Daphne accompanied me back to the room, and even requested that we keep the door open when the nurse made to shut it, and she caught my panicked expression. She sat there on the examination table beside me, spinning a lie as to why we were there, talking us through it all to the nurse...while I sat and said nothing. I let the nurse prepare her supplies, and pulled up my sleeve when I was instructed to, flinching when she touched my arm, just concentrating on the feel of Daphne's hand in mine...just wanting it to be over so we could get out of this suffocating room.

I relaxed a little when the nurse finished up, promising to return in a few minutes, and left Daphne and I alone. The silence had embraced us again, only this time it was tense and apprehensive, a million thoughts running through both our heads.

"What if I have it?" I asked flatly after a minute or two. I couldn't help it. I couldn't help asking. It had been on my mind since the moment she had mentioned getting tested, and I was scared shitless. Christ, was there _anything _I didn't have to be scared of anymore?

She took a deep breath and let it out, closing her eyes as though the idea was too much to even bear thinking about, and didn't answer. My question hung openly in the silence, impossible not to hear.

And mixing with the dread of what could be in me at this very moment, just biding its time...as if that wasn't enough...was the cold fear pressing in on my lungs, making it difficult to breathe in this tiny, enclosed space. Shit. I really just wanted...needed...to get _out _of there, just go and break from this sudden episode of claustrophobic panic. Just get _out _and away from it all.

The nurse returned a few horribly drawn out minutes later, and I sat quietly while she and Daphne conversed about something I wasn't listening to, until finally it was time to leave. The nurse left first, with the promise to notify me of my results in a few days.

"Ready to go?" Daphne asked, sliding off the examining table. I nodded, and let her pull me to the door. All I'd wanted since I'd gotten there was to just _leave,_ but now that I was facing the prospect of walking through those narrow hallways again, I couldn't help wanting to just stay huddled up in this little room forever.

"It's okay," she said softly, tugging me gently through the door.

On our way back outside, she filled me in on everything she and the nurse had discussed while I'd zoned out. How she had gotten me some post exposure meds, how there was a good chance that, if I did have something, it likely wouldn't show up this soon, how I was scheduled to come back again in a couple of weeks. I just nodded numbly through it all. My stomach sank a little when I heard that I was going to have to come back, but she promised to take me when I did, and while the idea still terrified me to no end, it would be just a little easier with her.

"She saw my arm. The bruises..." I said through clenched teeth as we made our way back to the car. There was a middle-aged couple walking a little way ahead, just a few yards from us, that were making me tense. Daphne squeezed my hand reassuringly, and I squeezed back, moving a little closer to her.

"She doesn't know what they're from," she assured me, waiting patiently as I halted in the middle of the sidewalk. The couple had stopped walking to look in a store window, and I couldn't bring myself to get any closer to pass them.

Daphne had lent me one of those sports wrist bands to cover the red marks from what I could only assume were from being bound so tightly in that fucking swing, and I'd managed to stretch it enough to fit me normally. However, it didn't hide the half-a-dozen smaller bruises that looked as though they could have been from fingers clenching me too tightly, nor the single heavy bruise just above my elbow.

I felt Daphne take my arm gently, carefully avoiding the worst of the bruising, and lead me into the street, around the couple, and back to the sidewalk again, me clutching her hand tightly the whole time.

Fuck, I _hated _this. I'd gotten so much better since the bashing. I could walk in crowds on my own. I could touch people and be touched. I was doing so much better, and now it was happening all over again. And I _knew_ it was ridiculous...I had known it then, too...I just couldn't help it. Like some people had snake phobias or bee phobias...I had a crowd phobia. A people phobia. Just something in me I couldn't control.

"We need to stop by the pharmacy. Get your prescriptions filled," she was saying, as she lead me along.

I nodded, then...

"I want to see Brian," I said randomly.

Her head jerked up so fast, she had to have hurt her neck. "You do?"

I nodded again, blinking against the ever present tears in my eyes. "I can't..." my voice broke painfully, and I berated myself for getting so emotional in public like this. But it was like my body just acted of its own accord; I had no control over it. I had no control over anything anymore, it seemed, and I fucking hated it. "I can't tell him...but I need to just..."

"I get it," she said softly. "I think you should. Do you want to go there now?"

"What about my meds?" I asked.

"I'll get them filled and drop by later, if you want," she offered.

"Okay," I agreed quietly, my heart pounding with just the thought of seeing my boyfriend.

We had reached the car at long last. Thank fuck. Daphne fumbled with her keys for a moment before unlocking it, and sliding into the driver's seat. I slipped into the passenger one and pulled my knees up to my chest, forgoing my seatbelt. I knew it was stupid and needlessly dangerous, but I couldn't stand the restriction. Couldn't stand feeling trapped like that. Fuck, I could barely stand being inside the fucking _car. _

We barely spoke the rest of the ride. I turned away to hide my tears when we pulled up to the side of the drive-through pharmacy. I was just...so fucking scared, all the what-ifs running through my head...what would I do if I was positive?

I didn't even want to think about it right now. I didn't want to think about what might be in me, what _was _in me, what was still inside me. I didn't want to think about _them, _or last night, or anything to do with anything. I wanted to go somewhere else entirely, and just not have this in my life for one fucking minute, so I could remember what it was like.

It was one night ago, and I can't even think what it was like not to feel this. It's too much, to think about _not _feeling it.

Most of all, I didn't want to think about trying to hide this from Brian, how this would change us, what would happen if he found out...I didn't want to think about anything but falling into his arms and never leaving them, ever...as we pulled up in front of his building.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry, I really thought this chapter was going to have Brian in it. It turned out longer than I thought, and this seemed like a good place to end it. I swear, though, next chapter will have Brian in it. ****I was really unsure about this one, and it took a couple re-writes to get it to a point where I found it post-able, so please let me know what you think. **


	4. Abstract

**A/N: So this one switches POV for a bit from Justin's to Brian's, then goes back to Justin's one more time. Sorry, I probably could have done it without Brian's POV, but when I was writing this (I tried writing chapters 4-6 before posting to make sure I could get them to work together) it got a little messed up, but I liked the glimpse into Brian's mind so I kept it. This picks up right where the last chapter left off. **

_**. Justin .**_

The pure, unadulterated fear I felt walking up to Brian's building rivaled the fear I'd felt upon waking up last night.

I was just so _fucking _terrified, and I wasn't even sure _why. _I didn't know if I was just scared in general, or if seeing Brian in particular was what had me so afraid.

All I knew was that I'd never wanted to do something simultaneously so much and so little as Daphne walked with me to Brian's door. We took the elevator after checking that there was no one else in it, and I could barely stand it but I hurt so much all over the idea of taking the stairs appealed to me even less.

"Do you want me to come in?" Daphne asked, hesitating outside the door.

I had hardly let go of her hand since stepping out of her apartment this morning, and a part of me...most likely my wildly hammering heart...didn't want to start now. Brian was in there, but... "Please?"

She nodded, and I let us inside. Daphne had dug my wallet and keys (mercifully there and untouched) out of my jeans I'd left in the corner of her bathroom before we'd left her house. I hadn't wanted to so much as touch the jeans again, but I'd mentioned something about not knowing where my wallet was during our argument concerning the clinic (she'd payed for it anyway), so she'd gone and searched my pockets for me. Seems they'd been more interested in what was inside the pants than inside the pockets when they'd ripped them off of me. I'd clutched the two items tightly before stuffing them inside my pockets, as though clinging to a little part of myself that they hadn't managed to take.

I almost sighed when I stepped over the threshold into the loft, hundreds of thoughts and emotions crashing through my body at once. It was like being held underwater to the point of panic, then being allowed to come up for a breath of air. It was relief. It was home. Familiar. _Safe. _

I was safe here.

"Where is he?" Daphne asked, revolving on the spot. He must have heard the elevator, right? And he had to have heard the door shut...

"Brian?" I called tentatively. I was safe, I was home, and the panic had died in my chest...but even without it, that sense of cold, constant fear hadn't left.

There was a difference, I realized, between panicking and being afraid. It was hard to describe, but...there was a subtle difference. Panic was those moments when I couldn't move, or had to move _right now, _when I could feel it bearing down on me, and filling me up from the inside. It controlled me while it had me. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think straight. Then it went away and I was left with just me...whatever was making me so terrified would stop or leave or I would leave, and I could breathe again.

Fear, however...it never left. It never went away. It was a constant, lurking presence inside my mind, inside my heart and body. It was fucking _everywhere. _It was in everything I did, everywhere I looked, everyone I saw. It was cold, and raw, and it _never _went away. With sheer panic, it controlled my thoughts temporarily before releasing them back to me. With _fear, _my thoughts weren't controlled _by _it, my thoughts _were _it. Everything, every part of me, was just scared. It wasn't just my thoughts, it was my _life. _

So yes, there was a difference.

And so even though the immediate panic had died down inside me, I was still scared, in my own home, in my own space, as I called out again. "Brian?"

There was no answer.

I couldn't hear the shower running. He wasn't in his bed. He wasn't...

"He's not here," I said softly. I turned away from Daphne, who was searching the counters in case he'd left a note, and wiped away even more fucking tears from my cheeks. He wasn't even home. Wasn't he even wondering where I was? I hadn't come home last night...I had missed our curfew...wasn't he at least a little concerned? Even angry? Anything could have happened to me...fuck, something_ did _happen, but...I could be dead for all he knew.

"Maybe he just went out for a few minutes. To the store or something," Daphne suggested, and I could feel her sympathetic gaze boring into my back. "Or maybe he's looking for you?"

If I hadn't been so upset, I would have laughed. Brian didn't look for people. Didn't go after people. If I didn't come home...he'd probably just assume I'd found some trick to entertain or something.

I sank onto the couch, and Daphne came to sit beside me. Of course, Brian was perfectly entitled to not be here during the day when I wasn't, it was stupid to think he would just wait around worrying, waiting for me to come home, but...didn't he care at _all _that I hadn't even come home?

I sank into Daphne's side, sniffling occasionally, letting my head rest on her shoulder while she held me and stroked my hair at the back of my head, in much the same way my mother used to do when I was little. I was exhausted, having barely slept last night, and I was just about to drift off when I heard the hum of the elevator.

I sat up immediately, eyes wide, and glanced at Daphne. Relief and panic battled for dominance in my brain. I was relieved at the thought that it was likely Brian in that elevator, but at the same time, I couldn't be sure that the panic wasn't for the exact same reason.

It was confusing and it didn't make any sense, but I hardly had time to ponder it, as soon the loft door was sliding open and a tall, lithe brunette was striding through it, and every other thought was quickly overridden by the overwhelming desire to throw myself in his arms.

There was a metallic clatter as Brian tossed his keys on the counter, not even glancing at the couch, though I knew he had to see us, and headed for the bedroom, peeling off clothes in the process. Daphne looked away when he began undoing his jeans, as did I...normally, I wouldn't, but...I couldn't even stand to see him undress. It was just too...just too fucking _much _right now.

A few minutes later, he emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a black wifebeater, and strode over to the couch. I knew what was coming before he even got there, and braced myself for the sudden invasion of space I knew would happen.

Sure enough, he leaned down and kissed my cheek, then Daphne's. Typically, she would have gotten all blushy and giggly at this, but she barely even looked at him. She'd caught my barely existent flinch when he kissed me—though he hadn't—and her eyes spoke volumes as they met mine across the bit of cushion separating us.

"And how are you two doing this fine afternoon?" he asked, the usual sarcasm oozing from his tone, as he left us in the living room and went to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, my eyes following him. He was acting...did he even know I hadn't come home last night? Or was he just pretending everything was fine? Of course, no matter what I did, even if I really had stayed out past curfew just to fuck a trick, Brian Kinney would never let on that it bothered him.

I caught Daphne's raised eyebrow, and I looked away from them both, suddenly tearful again. _Not in front of Brian..._ I pleaded with my own body..._don't cry in front of Brian..._

But it was no use. I was crying and there was no stopping the tears pouring silently down my cheeks.

"Do you want me to go?" Daphne whispered, clutching my hand. I glanced over at Brian, still standing obliviously in the kitchen, and nodded. As scared as I was at being emotionally stranded, alone with him and without Daphne who _knew _and was on my side...I needed to do it. Whatever this was with him, whether I told him the truth or not...I needed to face him alone. Besides...I was safe here. I mean...even without her, I had Brian, right? And even if the worst happened and he was pissed at me for whatever reason, I was still safe with him, wasn't I?

"Thanks," I whispered back. She started forward, as though to hug me, but instead settled for squeezing my hand one last time before standing up, promising to check in later, and calling out a good-bye to Brian, before leaving the two of us alone.

I was slumped on the couch cushion, down low where Brian couldn't see me. I didn't want to be crying when he talked to me, and I sat, hastily wiping away tears, trying to exercise some self control. It was quiet for a moment before I heard approaching footsteps, and tried to still the churning dread in my stomach.

I felt the couch dip next to where I was curled up, hugging my knees to my chest, and purposefully avoiding looking at Brian by staring fixedly at my kneecaps instead. He was so fucking close...I could feel him next to me, just way too close.

I'd let Daphne sit beside me, but it was like...like how when you get into a pool, you have to get used to the water first. It might be cold and uncomfortable to begin with, but you let your body get used to it and then you're more comfortable _in _the water than out. Well, it was the same with me now, I guess. It had been difficult to let Daphne touch me at first, but the more I got used to it, the safer I felt in letting it happen. It wasn't that I didn't trust Brian, it was just...he was different. He was something new.

And still, some of the time it seemed random...I would be wanting nothing more than to be held and comforted, then when it happened, I wouldn't want anyone near me. It didn't make sense. I tried to tell myself that it was just him now, just my boyfriend, just the guy I loved to touch and have touch me, but...

I jerked away when he tried.

Jokingly making some remark about Daphne leaving as soon as he showed up, and now me not being happy to see him, he reached out and tried to pull me to him for a kiss, but I jumped and jerked away before I could stop myself. I felt his lips make contact with the back of my head instead of my cheek as I turned.

"Justin?"

But I was crying harder than ever, and I was sure he could see my shoulders shaking violently with every sob that racked my body.

"Justin, what the fuck is wrong?"

But I couldn't answer. Not only was telling him what _was _wrong the very last thing on Earth that I wanted to do at that moment, but I couldn't get a word in edgewise around my choking sobs into my own folded arms.

He made to touch me again, his hand brushing my shoulder, but I shrugged him off, shifting a little further from him. "Don't," I muttered uselessly. I was sure he couldn't make it out clearly.

"Justin..."

"Don't touch me!" The words were torn from my throat as he tried yet again to reach out to me. Suddenly, I couldn't stand being on that couch with him. I was on my feet before I knew what had come over me, and I just stared at him, hardly able to believe what I'd just done.

He stared back for several moments, eyes narrowed and expression a mixture of concern and bemusement, obviously wondering what the fuck had gotten into me, the only sounds to penetrate the silence being my own panicked, breathy gasps.

If I'd expected anything from him after that little episode...it was more yelling, or scoffing, or some cold remark about how if I didn't want him to touch me, he could find someone who did...maybe even him demanding again to know what was wrong, but never...

"Is this about me not coming home last night? Because if it is..."

What? He hadn't...he hadn't even been _home _last night? He wasn't here either? He was...he was out, probably getting his dick sucked or something, while I was being...

"Just leave me the fuck alone!" I shouted suddenly, effectively interrupting him.

He looked angry. But fuck, I was angry, too.

"Will you stop being a drama princess and listen to me for a fucking second?" he snapped. Oh, _I'm_ a drama princess? I was being fucking _raped _by God knows how many guys, and he was...

"I was in jail, okay? Michael and Ted can verify it."

_Jail? _

"Believe me, you didn't miss a damn thing. I spent the night in the slammer with the idiots I call my friends...one of whom spends way too much time watching prison porn, and the other who mouths off to cops because of some personal grudge against the one fucking his mother. It wasn't exactly a party," Brian said bitingly.

Oh. He was...it wasn't his fault, then, but...

I realized...I could stay mad. I could feel the anger draining out of me as he spoke, but...if I just stayed angry, or pretended to...

"Just...fucking save it, Brian!" I yelled at him. It hurt to watch the look on his face at the words I was making up as I went along...like I'd just slapped him across the face...but then the bruise in the middle of my back throbbed painfully and I didn't stop there. "You don't have to lie to hide the fact that you were out getting your dick sucked and didn't feel like coming home!"

Brian's expression changed from bewildered disbelief to completely pissed in under two seconds. "Don't believe me, then, I don't give a shit. I told you the fucking truth."

More tears splashed down my cheeks as I watched him stand up and storm into the kitchen, his 'I-don't-give-a-fuck' mask firmly in place, but I could almost feel the heat radiating off him. He chugged down the rest of the water in the bottle in one gulp and slammed it down on the counter.

"We have rules!" I screamed at him. I knew I should stop, I'd accomplished what I'd wanted...he wouldn't think about touching me for a while. He'd leave me alone, and think I was just pissed at him. But somehow things had changed from being about making him mad to venting my own suddenly revitalized anger, and the words flowed from my mouth of their own accord. "Home by three, remember?" It wasn't his fault, I _knew _that...nothing was...but if he'd just been home...if he'd known I hadn't been...

"It's not like I _chose _to be thrown in fucking jail, Justin!" he yelled back, cool, careless demeanor evaporating on the spot. "You think I _wanted _to spend the night on a hard wooden bench in a cell instead of my own fucking bed?"

"Just...fuck off!" my voice cracked.

"Fuck _you!" _he yelled back. He covered the distance between the counter to the door in three quick strides, and the sound of it slamming shut reverberated throughout the loft.

"_Fuck!" _I cried, kicking the couch hard, which accomplished very little other than producing a stabbing pain in my foot. Like I needed to hurt anywhere else. I already hurt inside, outside, and everywhere in between...and now...

Now I'd just hurt Brian. Brian, who I'd been counting on to make me feel better. Make me feel safe. What had happened?

Somehow, I hadn't thought about the consequences of making him angry. I'd wanted him not to touch me, but I hadn't thought about being left _completely _alone, and suddenly the loft was too big and I was too small and I just wanted him back here with me.

He didn't come home for several hours. I didn't know where he was or what he was doing, and frankly, I didn't care. I just knew he wasn't home with me, and that scared me...it scared me to be alone but I couldn't leave, and I couldn't think past that. Daphne came over a little while later to drop off my medicine, and while I appreciated the company, eventually, I was just too tired to stay awake any longer, and fell asleep with her on the couch.

The two of us woke up a little later. She had done more than enough for me today, and though she offered to stay, I insisted she go home. The lack of adrenaline coursing through my veins since I'd wound down from my shouting match with Brian had left me feeling exhausted once again, and I figured it would be easy enough to fall back asleep. It didn't leave me much time to be scared.

Pulling a pair of pajama pants from the bottom drawer and leaving my sweatshirt on, I set the security alarm and checked it twice before climbing into bed, breathing in the scent of the two of us, the scent of him off his pillow. The scent that meant I was safe and taken care of, and I cursed myself for being so stupid.

I knew it wasn't his fault. None of this was. Not the fact that he hadn't come home last night, and certainly not what had happened to me. Fuck, he'd even offered me the money for school...I was the one idiotic enough not to take it. I wished with all of my everything that I could turn back time and do it differently...just take the money and be grateful instead of trying to take care of myself and being such a stupid fucking kid.

No, it wasn't his fault this had happened...

It was mine.

My fault and mine alone. I had gotten myself into this fucking nightmare, not him. He'd done nothing but try to help me, and I'd fucked up, and ended up here. I had no one to blame but myself.

I was still exhausted, but even when I could manage to quiet my mind enough to get some sleep, every fucking little noise had me alert. The wind rattling the window, the hum of the fridge...everything had me alert and afraid. I hadn't noticed it so much with Daphne here, but now it was all I could concentrate on. I felt like a fucking child...scared of the dark, just wanting to be held...

Brian came in a little after twelve. For a moment, I couldn't breathe when I heard the elevator and then the door, and I nearly had another panic attack. I hadn't had one in months, not since right after I was bashed...but I'd already lost count of how many times I'd nearly lapsed into another one today...but then I heard the familiar sounds of Brian in the kitchen. He had his little routine, and I could hear each task being taken care of out there in that well-established order, and I knew it was him.

I had left most of the lights on, but I guess he saw I was in bed and began flipping them off. I tried not to shudder at the sudden lack of light, holding very still when I heard his footsteps padding up the stairs. There was a rustle of fabric as he slowly undressed, and I was as tense as ever. I wasn't even breathing at all when he laid down next to me, slipping under the covers and pressing himself against my back, his arm sliding around my waist.

For a second...I just wanted to fade out of that picture, go where he couldn't touch me, where no one could. But then...

I just relaxed.

I relaxed in his embrace as he sighed into my neck, and squeezed me a little tighter, and I knew that he knew I was awake and this was his way of saying he was sorry for what had happened between us. This...had been what I needed. Just his arms around me, holding me tightly against his body. Not kissing or touching too much...just being there, comforting me. Protecting me. And for a moment I allowed myself to believe that I was truly loved as much as I liked to hope.

For what felt like the millionth time that day, I felt the burn of tears in my eyes. I was already so sick of crying. I had barely stopped since last night, and I was so sick of it. It didn't even feel like a big deal anymore, as though it were the new norm of my life. It was more uncommon to_ not _be crying.

I hoped he couldn't hear or feel it as I began to cry softly into my pillow, just prayed he was asleep.

Meanwhile, I was having trouble getting my mind to shut up again. Why couldn't I have been _here_ last night? Why did I have to be so fucking _stupid?_ Why couldn't I have listened to him after he'd _warned _me?

Why couldn't he have saved me?

* * *

Safe and comfortable in Brian's arms, it had been difficult, but I'd finally fallen asleep.

However, that comfort didn't extend to helping me_ stay _asleep.

_Hey, have you tried blondie here yet? Come on, he's great...aren't you, Taylor? Oh yeah...you like it, don't you, you little whore? Don't you, Taylor? ANSWER me! _

"Don't!" was the word that echoed in the silence as my eyes flew open and I sat up. Trying to catch my breath, I let the reality of where I was sink in. Brian's loft. Brian's bed. _Safe, Justin, you're safe. _

I breathed a sigh of relief, though it didn't do anything to halt the tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

"Justin?"

I jumped, then realized that Brian was awake and peering up at me in concern. "I'm...fine," I lied, sniffling pathetically. Real convincing. "Go back to sleep."

But he had sat up, too, and hesitantly put an arm around my shoulders, drawing me in close.

Again, just like right before we'd fallen asleep...it was just this that I needed. Just what I'd been wanting since Daphne and I had left the clinic earlier. Well—I checked the digital clock on the table beside the bed—yesterday, technically, I guess.

But it was what I'd been wanting. Just to be able to cry like this. To bury myself in Brian's chest, curling so close to him, encircled in the safety of his arms. I'd always marveled at how perfect he was for this. His body was built for comforting people. In fact, something I'd always liked about our considerable size difference is that he is so easy just to cuddle up to and get lost in. I'd always liked being overwhelmed with his body around mine, confined inside the hollow between his arms, snuggled into my special spot with my head tucked under his chin. After sex, I loved when he'd collapse on top of me, and I'd just lay there with him wrapped around me, feeling so snug and warm and safe underneath him. My own personal blanket of Brian.

And even with the taunting leers and words from my dream still echoing inside my head, I could handle this now. I could handle being hugged like this. As long as it was _just _this, I even liked it.

I was soaking his chest with tears, but he didn't seem to mind. After several minutes during which I'd finally regulated my breathing and my crying had slowed a little, he pulled away just a little and looked down at me.

"What was it about?"

After the bashing, it had taken a little getting used to—on both sides—to wake up to my nightmares several times a week. Sometimes even several times a night. I'd been quite anxious the first time...afraid he'd just turn away and snap at me to go back to sleep...but instead he'd surprised me. Held me and whispered into my ear that everything was okay, we'd talked about the dream a little, and I'd fallen back asleep snuggled into his side.

That had been the first night I'd come here after leaving the hospital. Once we had started having sex again, he still did his comfort routine, but those were the nights we fucked slow and easy, no hurry or urgency in our movements. Just making...I wouldn't say love, even in my head or Brian would kill me...but making each other whole.

"It was..." but I couldn't answer. Not with the truth, anyway. "Hobbes," I lied instead.

Something else we had both picked up on was our own little code when it came to my nightmares. He never failed to ask me what the dream concerned...his way of offering to listen if I wanted to talk...and I'd either answer with a general answer such as "Hobbes" or "prom," or I'd go into more detail, and tell him what exactly had happened...and he'd either get the hint that I didn't want to talk, or he'd sit and listen and rub my back in that soothing way he does while I spoke.

He nodded, pressing his lips to the top of my head. Why had I fought him on this before? This was Brian...he wasn't scary. He protected me. He made me feel _better. _

But every muscle in me tensed when his lips next went for my ear, then from there to my neck. I knew where this was heading, where it had always taken us, and suddenly I remembered the reason I'd fought him. Or at least part of the reason.

"Stop," I muttered, letting my arms drop from around his middle and pulling away.

"What's wrong?"

"I just..." I sighed. "I'm tired."

He nodded. "Okay." I could tell he was disappointed, maybe concerned. I'd never turned him down on this before, or at least not ever since that time after the birthday party, when we'd gone so uncommonly slow, and he'd asked me if I was sure and I'd told him to take it easy. It was something we'd always needed during nights like these. Needed to feel whole and alive and together.

Now, I couldn't stand the thought of him all over me like that. Holding me...I welcomed it. But sex...I couldn't stomach it.

I was afraid, when he said nothing else and just dropped back to his pillow, that he was angry. But then I laid down too, and he tentatively reached out an arm to wrap around my waist, and I let him. Yet again, it was just another similarity to after I was bashed. I'd always been able to let Brian do more than other people. Still not as much as I wished I could, but more than other people. I could let him hold me like this while I slept, defenseless and vulnerable.

Because despite it all, I trusted him.

* * *

**. Brian .**

He hadn't had a nightmare in weeks. Over a month, at least. Then suddenly, last night, through the haze of sleep that had settled over me, I could hear him muttering weakly and felt his arm fly out of nowhere and hit me in the chest.

By the time I opened my eyes, he was already awake, sitting up and gasping for air, tears cascading freely down his cheeks. I hated his nightmares and what they did to him. I hated seeing him like this.

The first time he'd had a nightmare here at the loft, he'd woken up screaming and terrified. He'd looked a little wary when I'd tried to talk to him, as though he didn't trust me not to suddenly snap at him for waking me up. And I'll admit there might have been a time, long before that...before the bashing, before he'd become really welcome in my life...when I would have. But anger at him was one thing that hadn't even crossed my mind.

Last night, though, he seemed scared and hurt and wary all over again. He body was stiff (and not in the good way) when I pulled him close to me, wrapping my arms around his shaking form. He usually never hesitated to fall into my arms and cry, (which he did, harder than he had in months), but he seemed reserved, almost tentative to let me touch him. I knew perfectly well that he wasn't too tired for sex like he'd said, when it had started heading in that direction. I didn't know what the dream was about, but it must have been a particularly bad one for him not to want to be touched like that.

So I slipped my arm around him instead, waiting for signs that he didn't want that either, but they didn't come. He'd just relaxed into me, and holding him snugly against my chest, I slipped back into sleep.

* * *

I thought, when I'd come home and he was awake and I held him and he let me, it meant that the stupid argument over me missing curfew was over and forgotten. He'd worn clothes to bed...something that, besides after the bashing, he'd only ever done when he was pissed at me and wanted to make sure I knew it. It was the equivalent to tossing my pillow out on the couch.

But what the fuck was I supposed to have done? It wasn't even my fault we'd gotten thrown in jail. I would have much rather have been home fucking him into the mattress than in that fucking cell, but thanks to Michael's sudden desire to cave to stupidity and shoot his mouth off at a cop, that hadn't happened.

I thought we were over it, but when I woke up, he wasn't next to me. I couldn't hear any noise coming from the bathroom, and for a moment I didn't think he was even there. Then a light sniffle caught my attention.

I rose from the bed and pulled on a pair of pants. Normally I wouldn't have, but it was chilly this morning to be walking around completely naked. I found him out in the living room, on the couch, back against the arm, a sketchpad in hand. He was crying, his pencil poised above the paper.

I didn't ask. Just looked at him, waiting for him to answer the unspoken question.

"What?" he finally asked, wiping tears on the back of his hand as he looked up at me.

_What? _I walk out here and find him balling his eyes out and he asks me _what _like he doesn't get it.

"What's wrong? Why the fuck are you crying?" I asked, hoping the words hadn't come out too harsh sounding. I could never find the heart (at least not anymore) to be a total shit to him when he was in tears like this...but that didn't mean I was about to fix us a bowl of ice cream and gently coax him into telling me what was bothering him. But I couldn't ignore him, and I really was concerned, not that I'd ever admit it...so I asked and waited for him to tell me.

He sniffed again. "Nothing. I'm just...nothing."

Okay, does he just think I'm an idiot or something?

I sat down next to him and pulled his feet on top of my lap. His entire body tensed, suddenly alert, as he looked at me, tearful and wide-eyed. I'd even go so far as to say he looked...scared_? _

Of _me?_

"What are you drawing?" I asked, changing the topic. If he didn't want to talk, I wasn't going to beg him to. For one thing, Brian Kinney doesn't beg for anything, _especially _not to talk about feelings. Typically, Brian Kinney doesn't even talk about fucking feelings in general, but after Justin's nightmare last night and him crying now, Brian Kinney is willing to make a slight exception.

But if Justin didn't want to talk, I wasn't going to make him.

"Nothing!" he barked, clutching his drawing pad a little closer, as if to hide it from me.

_Okay..._well I hadn't been expecting that. There were times when he would just close off, shut down and become distant for a while, but he nearly always took the opportunities I offered him to talk about whatever he was feeling, particularly since after he was bashed. I was reasonably sure he would have gladly done it before then, too, but it wasn't until afterward that _I'd _stepped up and offered to listen like he needed.

"If you're drawing my cock again, you know I don't mind. But tell me if you need a visual reminder; you sold me short last time," I tried to joke.

He didn't even crack a smile. Usually, jokes like that managed to pull at least a reluctant, watery grin from him, but he just looked down at his sketch miserably.

I dropped a hand to his knee, and he gave a reflexive start. I frowned. "Come on, Sunshine..." I growled deep in my throat, the way that always turned him on, scooting his legs off my lap and crawling up his body instead. "What are you drawing?" I asked, trying for a new tactic. What was on that paper, and did it have anything to do with him crying? He had mostly stopped now, but something was obviously bothering him.

"Nothing..." I was halfway up his body, and he had raised himself partly off the couch, as though preparing to bolt at any second. "Brian..." he said uneasily.

"Hmm?" I leaned down to kiss his collarbone just inside of his sweatshirt, and suddenly he was pushing me off and standing up and yelling at me.

"Don't!" he shouted, he was leaning over, arms over his stomach as though he was about to be sick. "Just..._don't!" _

Fuck.

Tears yet again pouring down his cheeks, which looked paler than usual, his voice cracked as he continued yelling.

"You can't just kiss me and make everything better! It won't fucking work!" he yelled accusingly.

"What the fuck are you _talking _about?!" I was more than a little confused, concerned, and also a little pissed. What the fuck had I done to warrant him screaming at me? I hadn't even been a shit to him this time.

"Just forget it! Fuck off!"

Mouth hanging open, I didn't take my eyes off him as he left the room in a huff of angry tears, sketchbook still in hand, and locked himself in the bathroom.

* * *

**. Justin .**

_Fuck. _

How could I just lose it like that again? What the hell was I _thinking?_

I was thinking that I didn't want him to touch me, but I didn't know any other way to make him stop.

God, I was fine...last night I was fine, with him holding me and his arm around me...but then, just now...he was on top of me and trying to kiss me and I couldn't deal. I couldn't do it. I remembered them all over me, on top of me like that, biting and licking and just all over my body, and I couldn't handle it.

I leaned against the bathroom wall, sinking to the ground, head in my arms. I fucking _hated _this so much. I hated that I could always feel them, and I hated that I couldn't touch Brian, and I hated just being inside my skin.

I hated my whole fucking life right now.

I looked down at the crumpled sketchpad I'd brought. I hadn't wanted to leave it out there with Brian.

Sap's twisted, sneering face looked back at me.

I hadn't meant to draw him...but my mind had been on my nightmare and his face was all I could see and it had just happened, and after that I couldn't hold back the tears.

After a while Brian came to knock on the door, calling my name, but I didn't answer. I was lucky he was even still here. He shouldn't have to put up with my outbursts when he didn't even do anything.

I sighed, just staring down at the picture of his face and wishing it wasn't the one I saw every fucking time I closed my eyes.

And that was when I came to the realization...that face, that sketch...I had captured something on paper I never had before. An idea, an emotion...something so abstract, it shocked me to see it in front of me now, in physical form...but I recognized it when I did.

That was what fear looked like.

* * *


	5. Wrong

**A/N: Okay, so this has two parts, one in Brian's POV, and the other in Justin's. It's pretty much what's been going on for the couple weeks afterwards at the loft. Justin is still struggling to deal, while Brian is trying to connect the dots and figure out what's wrong. Unfortunately, Brian is thinking more along the lines of an old problem resurfacing, than Justin having a new one completely. **

**. Brian .**

Over the next couple of days, things with Justin only grew more unusual, and I wasn't sure if I should be concerned or pissed. Or both.

The first two or three days, I'd been certain he had just been queening out over that stupid curfew incident. He'd scream at me for any reason and no reason at all—using anything from me tricking, to me not helping as much as I should have with the dishes one night after a home cooked meal he'd made. So I thought he was still just angry with me.

Those first three days, we barely spoke except to yell at each other. He'd always start the round with his sniping, then I'd snap back, and one or both of us would end up stalking off—him into the bathroom and me out the door to wherever I felt like going to cool off. I'd remained steadfast in my belief that, if he was indeed still peeved over me not coming home (which was stupid enough in itself, as it wasn't my fucking fault) then he should fucking tell me so that we could go from there, instead of lashing out for the ridiculous, petty reasons he was actually giving me at every opportunity. He knew I didn't play games. Besides, he'd broken a rule, too...and his was willingly. No fucking cop forced him to kiss that virgin at that stupid party. I had no choice in the jail matter. Well, I'd told him the truth. It was his own problem if he didn't believe me.

And so I'd remained in a very bad mood for three days. Pissed at him, at Michael, at the fucking cop... It was just fucking unfair that he was mad when I hadn't even done anything wrong this time. Those three days were hell as we fought and sniped and bickered and barely talked otherwise.

It wasn't until the forth day that I began to get the sense that something else was bothering him.

He was barely eating. Unless he was consuming breakfast, lunch, and dinner while I was at work, he was barely eating at all. He'd fix or order meals in the evening before I got home, and pick around at his food without actually putting a bite in his mouth. I'd mentioned this to him, about a week after the curfew incident, although our conversation left me no less uneasy than before.

"Becoming an anorexic, Sunshine?" I asked, helping myself to more of the noodles he'd prepared that night.

"Huh?" he asked distractedly, looking up from his plate.

I gestured at it, or more precisely, the food still on it. "You barely ate anything."

He shrugged. "I'm not hungry."

I might have been able to accept this, if he hadn't been practically starving himself all week, too. "You haven't been eating much lately," I observed.

"Who are you, Debbie, now? Why do you even care what I eat? And since when do you have room to talk about eating habits, anyway, Mr. No-Carbs-After-Seven?"

I frowned at the accusatory note in his voice, and the way he'd gone on the defense so alarmingly quickly. "All I'm saying is that you're allowed to leave the 'starving' out of 'starving artist.' It's optional, you know." I knew I was making him uneasy. He was fidgeting, his expression growing steadily darker. He was like a cornered animal, ready to bolt at any moment...and sure enough...

"I think I'm going to take a shower," he said, standing up and carrying his plate to the counter.

"You already took one today," I pointed out.

"Well, I want to take another one," he snapped. "I'm allowed to take more than one shower a day if I want."

I didn't argue with him when he strode quickly past and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving me quite alone in the kitchen. Suddenly, I wasn't very hungry anymore either.

However, even stranger than his lack of desire for food, however, was his sudden lack of desire for...well, _me. _

He wouldn't let me touch him. Barely let me kiss him. He cried over the stupidest things I said, and wore clothes to bed. It was like going through that whole phase after the bashing all over again. Every time I tried to get him to join me in the shower, or have a quick fuck before we left in the morning, he'd make some excuse about homework or being too tired, or he'd start his bullshit and snap at me.

Not including the day after I'd missed curfew, he hadn't even so much as kissed me for two days afterwards, and even when he finally did, it was nothing like our usual hot, wet, tongue-down-his-throat kisses...just a simple peck. More like the ones I exchanged with Michael and Lindsay than the kind I usually shared with him.

We'd been curled together on the couch, something else he'd been wanting more and more lately. Despite what I pretended, it wasn't too rare for me to hold him while we sat and watched a movie or something. But now it seemed that, when he allowed me to touch him, it was for the sole purpose of burying himself in my arms, curling as close as possible, as though hoping to disappear inside me.

He'd come and sat down next to me, pulled my arm hesitantly around him, and looked up at me, as though expecting me to push him away. I hadn't had the heart. We'd sat and watched the movie for a while, or at least, I had...he had closed his eyes and laid his head on my chest, and for a while I thought he was sleeping, until I let my chin drop gently to the top of his head, and he looked up. I'd just stared at him for a moment—it had been difficult to read him these last couple days, and I could never tell what he wanted or when he was close to snapping—but I leaned in and he didn't pull away, so I kissed him softly. He hadn't kissed back, really, or made any move to deepen it, but he hadn't moved away either.

He was also spending a lot more time with Daphne. I'd come home, and she'd be here, or he'd be on the phone with her. Not that it was a bad thing...it was good for him to hang out with someone his own age...but more than once, I'd caught them whispering, heads bent low together, and as soon as they realized I was within potential hearing distance, they'd stop. I could only guess what he was telling her about me.

But any time I mentioned any of this, anything at all, he'd get defensive and distant and retreat into the bathroom, or else start yelling at me until I got pissed and left.

Okay, I'll admit it. I was concerned. I had been wondering for a while what it could possibly be that could have caused him to act like this, assuming it wasn't just me. When he was screaming at me for something or refusing sex it was easy to think it might be, but he just seemed_...wrong. _I knew him. Better than I cared to admit, that was for sure. And this just wasn't him. It wasn't Justin.

The only time I could even think of him acting remotely similar was after he was bashed. The nightmares, the irrational fear of everything he seemed to have developed, him not wanting to be touched... Was it possible for symptoms of PTSD to return so strongly, months later? After so much progress? And if it was...what would have caused it?

I uneasily tossed the idea around in my head. It wasn't a place I liked to go...I had been certain we'd put the worst of that whole phase of our lives behind us by now...but what if something had happened to make him relapse somehow? There had been more than one occasion, months after the fact, where he'd suddenly freeze in a crowd, or have one of his nightmares...but this wasn't just some triggered isolated event, it was like he'd reverted straight back to a time when he couldn't go a day without a nervous breakdown.

But if that was really what happened, what could have set him off? There were still things he avoided, triggers and such. He absolutely refused to watch a baseball game, he would park streets away from a building and walk just so that he wouldn't have to park in the garage, and gave movies with excessive or graphic violence a wide berth. But would something like that have been enough to cause this?

_Maybe..._

Maybe...he had seen Chris Hobbes? It had happened that once, at the hospice...so it was possible. But wouldn't he have told me? What if that fucker said something to him? Would that be enough to set him back in all his progress?

I was getting ahead of myself, but I just couldn't think of what would cause him to do a complete turn around like this. Maybe I should think about looking for that therapist again. It was just so fucking difficult to watch him come so far, then fall—and hard—right back to where he was.

The most worrisome thing about all this, however, had to be his nightmares.

They'd returned, full force, it seemed...and hadn't allowed him a full nights' sleep in weeks. Sometimes, I didn't know whether or not I should try to touch him afterwards, but he always allowed it, and cried into my shoulder until he fell back asleep.

One night, about a week and a half after my night in jail, we'd been laying there in bed for a while, and I was pleasantly relaxed, almost asleep...when I heard him crying. I was sure he hadn't fallen asleep yet...his breathing hadn't evened out like it normally did...so it couldn't have been a nightmare. But something had stopped me from moving, from pulling him closer and trying to comfort him. I wasn't sure he knew I was awake. Actually, I was pretty certain he thought I was asleep, which meant that, for whatever reason, he didn't want me to know he was crying. Reluctantly, I'd respected this, and tried to block out the sound of his quiet sobs until he finally fell asleep, only to wake up screaming two hours later.

I brought up the topic of his nightmares the very next day.

"Hey," I said casually as I strode into the kitchen that morning to pour myself a cup of coffee. Despite his restless nights, he'd been getting up before me almost every morning to make it, though he rarely drank any of it himself. I'd told him at least four or five times not to do it...he needed all the sleep he could get, and I didn't want him becoming my fucking slave—going out of his way to make me dinners and coffee and such—but it never had any effect.

"Hey," he replied, not glancing up from the apparently intriguing design of my table.

I sat down across from him, taking a sip of coffee, and eyed him appraisingly, neither of us saying anything. Finally, I sighed, setting my coffee mug down on the table with a soft _clunk, _catching his attention. "So..." I began, unsure how to broach this topic. "I was thinking you might want to see that psychiatrist again...the one you saw before?" _When you were bashed and had nightmares and woke up screaming every other night._ _When you were scared and hurting and FUCK...what the hell is going on with you?!_

His entire body tensed up immediately. "Why?" he asked, his voice faltering a little. "Why...why do you want me to see a psychiatrist?" he demanded.

I pinched the bridge of my nose warily. He was already freaked. Not a good reaction. "Justin...you've been having nightmares every night..."

His eyes grew big and wide and damn it...there were the tears again. Exactly what I didn't want. Shit. "I'm sorry," he said in a small voice. "I can sleep on...on the couch or something," he said, his voice shrinking even more. He sounded so fucking scared and sad and pathetic, it even tore at my heartstrings. No, this...was not Justin. I could still remember that time when I'd somehow been coerced into letting him stay with me, shortly after I'd met him...I had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to sleep on the couch, and thirty seconds later he'd ended up in bed with me. Justin had never been content with sleeping anywhere but beside me.

"I don't want you to sleep on the couch. I want you to stop having nightmares," I said firmly. "So what do you think about the therapy thing? We can get the same one as last time..."

"I don't want therapy," he said, standing up, clutching his own coffee mug tightly. Today seemed to be one of the rare ones where he actually drank some. "I'm just...I'm really stressed...with school and stuff. And...I had this stupid fight with my mother, and it...all the stress just makes me...have nightmares, and..." He was rambling. I sighed when he poured the rest of his coffee down the sink and hurried out of the room, firing off some random excuse that I was sure I'd heard before. So much for helping him.

I wondered idly if it was true about the nightmares being brought on by stress. He _did _seem to be struggling with the new workload they'd dumped on him at school. I would come home and he'd have paint and canvas and notebooks spread out everywhere, and wouldn't get up for hours. This was also his excuse as to why he hadn't had the time to go to Babylon in a fortnight. Each time I'd tried, he'd fervently insisted he simply had too much to do. I'd suggested Babylon, Woody's, the baths...but Justin, being the grade A student that he is, flat out refused to do anything else until all his work was complete. At least, that was assuming it was the reason and not the excuse as to why he kept turning me down. Somehow, I had my doubts.

Every time I so much as hinted at him stopping and joining me for a quick fuck in the shower, he'd refuse with an apology and the explanation that he had to finish a project. No matter how hard he worked, how much time he spent diligently pouring over some canvas or another...whenever I'd insist he take a break from it all and have some well-deserved fun, it always somehow ended in us snapping at each other.

He'd even, much to my secret (or not so much) pleasure and relief, quit his job at Babylon to focus more on school. As far as I was concerned, that job had _"bad fucking idea" _written all over it, and I couldn't have been happier when he told me he'd quit. When I'd asked if that meant he was accepting my offer to pay his tuition, he'd just nodded a little, oddly distant, and thanked me. I knew how much it must have cost him to ask me for help. It was like admitting he'd failed, and that just wasn't Justin, either. I didn't see him for the rest of the night after that. He had shut himself in the bathroom again with the phone, and I was pretty sure he was talking to Daphne for the third time that day.

It was something else he did now...shutting himself in the bathroom. I didn't know why, or what he was doing in there, but sometimes I could hear the water running in the shower. Other times, he took his sketchbook in with him, and I figured it was just some weird artist thing he needed to do to concentrate or whatever. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done something seemingly odd and senseless for his art.

Once, a few weeks after he'd come to live with me after his assault, he sat up on the roof of the fucking building for an entire day, sketching the view of the horizon against the skyscrapers. I'd been going crazy looking for him all day (something I conveniently forgot to mention to him), and going on a whim, I'd finally found him up there, sketching away, lost in his world.

When I'd asked him why he couldn't just sketch from the window in the loft, he'd replied in that impassioned tone and manner that he used when he spoke about art that always made me feel like there was something I just didn't get. Something I was missing about it. I could remember his exact words as clearly as if they'd been spoken this morning. (Also something I'd never mentioned to him.) _Sometimes you have remove yourself from everything to get a clear view. Take a step back and cut free from everything so you can breathe a little._

I remembered thinking how odd it sounded at the time. People just...didn't talk like that. _He _never even talked like that, except when it concerned art. When it was about that which he loved, he could be surprisingly intense.

So, my point...it wouldn't have been the first time he'd done something exceedingly strange for the sake of art, and I'd pretty much learned to leave him alone and let him do his thing whenever he was in one of his 'zones.'

But it wasn't just that. When he wasn't locking himself in the bathroom and taking hour long showers, or else sniping at me over something stupid I'd said or done, he was lying lifelessly on the couch staring at nothing, like some tweaked out zombie. In truth, that had actually kind of freaked me out. But, just like I'd learned not to disturb him when he was in his creating zone, I'd quickly learned to give him his space when he was 'resting.'

One day I'd returned home from an arduous work out session, and come inside to find him just lying on the sofa. At first I'd thought he was watching TV, but when I passed him on my way up to the bedroom to drop off my gym bag and take a shower (something I knew I had no chance of getting him to join) I realized the TV was off.

"Interesting show, Sunshine?" I'd asked, leaning over the back of the couch, keeping my voice low just in case he was napping.

He nearly jumped out of his skin. He'd been doing that a lot lately...jumping. I'd often teased him about being lost in his own little world, especially when he was painting or sketching, but he'd been drifting off like that even more than usual in recent days.

"Brian! What...what the fuck are you doing here?" he stammered, apparently trying to regain some composure.

"Well, I_ live_ here," I said slowly, as though trying to explain math to a two year old. "That tends to mean I return here after extraneous activities."

"Oh, right...I mean, um...fuck, I was just...I've got to go..." He jumped off the couch, and hurried past me into the fucking bathroom again. I hadn't gotten my shower, and he hadn't come out until it was time for bed.

So yeah. I was fucking concerned. The last thing he needed was to fall into that dark place he'd just so recently come out of since the attack...he couldn't go back there. Neither of us could.

But something inside me wondered if we were already on our way.

**. Justin .**

He had to notice that something was wrong. That _I _was wrong.

Two weeks later, he had to know. He had to know by then that it wasn't just something he did that I was pissed about. He had to know it was something more, something deeper.

That idea scared me as much as it relieved me.

I didn't want him to think it was his fault that things with us—with me—were so fucked up lately. And I hated it so much, hated fighting with him...but I couldn't stand the alternatives. Either of them.

It was either let myself be touched—something I seriously could not physically stand—confess to him why I couldn't—something I wanted to do even less—or make him angry enough not to _want_ to touch me. Of course, that was hardly a good solution for either of us. Effective, yes...I got to keep quiet, and I didn't have to touch him, but...it meant he usually left. With a final biting remark from one or both of us, and the slam of the loft door, he would be gone. Out doing who knows what...or who. And I hated that he was most likely out there fucking his brains out while I was here alone and barely even able to _kiss _him, but...what else could I do? I couldn't touch him and I couldn't tell him...so I let him leave.

One of these times, I knew I was going to push too hard, too far...and I would be the one walking out that door with a suitcase in hand.

Sometimes I thought it might be easier just to tell him what had happened to me...I had tried on more than one occasion. But I kept hearing his words, his warnings...echoing back at me when I told him about the job, when he saw me doing the drugs Sap gave me, when I told him about the party...

And then I imagined, in my mind's eye, his face tightening in anger...his voice raised, calling me a stupid little shit for getting myself into this situation... Worst of all, I could see him tossing my shit into my bag, throwing me out the door... yelling at me that he didn't want to live with a fucking _rape _victim...too filthy and used and disgusting for anyone to touch or want.

After all, I was damaged, now. I was broken. Contaminated.

But I was still here, my mouth firmly shut except when I was yelling at him for no apparent reason. And if I ever had problems conjuring up insults and anger out of nowhere, all I had to do was think of that night. Think of what had occurred, what I had let happen, and I was furious. So I let it out.

I really thought he'd have been angry too, though, when I had to let him inside his own home after I changed the alarm code, about a week and a half after...well, after. The alarm had two different settings, where you could either have it go off immediately if a door or window was opened, or you could have it allow you thirty seconds to punch in the code and turn it off. Brian typically set it on the latter, but one day I'd been watching TV and there was this movie about a woman who had been raped by her neighbor, and it had scared me. I hadn't meant to watch it, but I had turned on the TV and I couldn't find the remote, and while I was looking for it the woman had started crying and screaming at her husband that she'd been raped, and I just hadn't been able to look away for a while.

So I turned the alarm on the first setting, still checking it obsessively at least twice an hour. When Brian had come home, I barely managed to stop him in time from opening the door and setting the wailing alert siren off. Ears sharply attuned to everything around me, every sound disturbing the silence, I only managed to stop him because I heard the key the moment it slid inside the lock.

"Don't open the door!" I called, dropping my pencil I'd been sketching with to the floor. I stood up cautiously, heart racing. "Who is it?"

The key had paused in the lock, and whoever it was had made no further attempts to open the door, but I was still wary.

"Who the fuck do you think?"

I let out a sigh of relief. "Okay, just...hang on a minute."

Brian waited while I disabled the alarm, and pulled open the door.

"What the hell was that about?" he demanded, shrugging off his coat as he stepped inside.

"I..." I hesitated. "I kind of...changed the alarm code," I mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

He frowned suspiciously. "What for? Did you give it to someone?"

"No!" I assured him quickly. "But...I just thought...I wanted...look, I'm sorry, okay?" I said, unable to offer an explanation. And I took off for the bathroom without waiting for a reply.

When I emerged, I had been sure I was about to get an earful from him. I hadn't even been trying to make him mad then, I just...I was still scared. I'd just wanted to feel safe, and I was so sure he was going to launch into a tirade.

But all that had happened was that he'd asked me if Thai sounded good for dinner (I'd been too upset that day to think about ordering it before he got home) then sat down to do some work on his computer. He didn't mention it again all evening, and I felt just a little bit safer.

The only other thing that came remotely close to making me feel safe anymore were Brian's arms around me, holding me against his body...something that was happening less and less. When I wasn't screaming at him over nothing or lying on the couch staring sightlessly at the wall, I was trying to make him as happy as I could without it being sexual...cooking dinner, making him coffee...trying to let him know I didn't hate him, just couldn't have him touch me like he normally did. Just wanted him to hold me and hug me and make me safe again. But it was becoming increasingly difficult...who would want to hug someone that kept screaming at him?

There were times when I'd seen him relaxing on the couch or something, and I'd just gone and curled up in his body. I was always a little nervous about it...always afraid he'd try something else, something more that I couldn't handle, or shrug me off. But he never did, and it was nice, just laying there with him. When we weren't fighting, and I wasn't wanting to crawl out of my own fucking skin, or making excuses as to why I didn't have the time or energy for sex, it was nice just to be with him. Made me feel just a bit more like myself. Made me stop wanting to fucking die and escape this, and just relax a little with him.

During the time when Brian wasn't available, for whatever reason, Daphne had told me repeatedly that I could call her whenever I needed. She had just been...great. I really didn't know what I'd do without her. She'd been visiting a lot, including each time I had to go to class. She was there to pick me up and drop me back off at the loft, and usually stayed until Brian came home. She listened while I talked about how horrible I still felt, how shitty things were with him lately...she'd suggested I tell him a couple times, even offered to do it herself, but she'd stopped bringing it up after I'd nearly had a meltdown at the idea.

She'd also asked me every day if the clinic had contacted me yet (we'd given them my cell number so they wouldn't call the loft) and when I'd finally been able to tell her, voice weak with relief, that the test had come back negative for everything, I was able to let her hug me for a while as we sat together, breathing just a little easier as some of the weight on our chests lifted. Still, she made sure to tell me in a tone that left no room for argument that I was still going back for my next appointment in a couple weeks. I had been shaking when I'd received the call, and had to sink into a chair when they'd told me I was okay so far. I knew there was still a good chance that whatever I might have just hadn't shown up yet, but right then I was just so fucking relieved I didn't care.

One day, she'd been over at the loft, and I'd been confessing to her that I was worried about falling behind on my school work, after missing all week. I didn't know what I was going to do, just knew that I couldn't let myself be shut up in those tiny classrooms and those narrow hallways with all those people all week. So that day, Daphne and I had gone up to the school together to request that I be allowed to bring my work home and do it. It had been a long, exhausting process, but eventually they had consented.

We'd had to make up some story about a family crisis, and me subsequently needing flexible hours, and all but one of my teachers was permitting me to do the work at home. That meant that only two times a week did I have to leave the relative safety of the loft and go to PIFA for a couple of hours, which were the days I picked up and dropped off my work for my other classes, as well.

Brian had noticed, naturally, that I was doing more school work than usual at home. It was pretty obvious, so I'd had no hope of concealing it from him. He'd tried more than once to get me to unwind and go out with him. Or he'd start kissing my neck while I sat at the table, trying to draw me away from it in favor of him, and I'd end up panicking and snapping at him and fighting and we'd both be miserable for hours.

I had used the excuse that my professors were coming down harder than ever on the students more times than I could count, and after what felt like the millionth time, I couldn't help but wonder if he knew more than he let on. Though I was sure he didn't know I wasn't going to school...he was gone at work all day...how could he know? If he'd known exactly what that "homework" involved, the exact projects I was expected to complete, he might've figured it out. But I'd been deliberately vague about the whole thing, and I don't think he realized that it was all my usual coursework.

But I was sure he had picked up on my inconsistent moods. Not that I was exactly bubbly any other day, but during those two days I went to PIFA...everything was in excess. If I was angry, I was angrier. If I was depressed, I barely moved the whole time I was home.

When Daphne left and Brian came home, I would often disappear into the bathroom to be alone. I'd shower, or sometimes just sit on the floor, usually crying, just dealing. Or else I'd be over by the window of the loft, staring outside, eyes dry but mind replaying every panicked moment I'd had that day. For some reason, I liked sitting by the window. If I wanted to hide and be alone, I'd go into the bathroom, but if I didn't mind Brian's company, or if I couldn't stand the thought of feeling even a little trapped...I felt almost free over there. I could look outside and imagine myself soaring over the city...rising up above everyone and everything...never touching back down. Never having to come back to deal with reality.

Then a noise would startle me and I'd jump and be forced back to it anyway.

My art itself had undergone a dramatic change. When I could draw, and it was more than just the Sap's leering features, whatever I managed to paint or sketch always ended up sad and angry and dark. I'd even received a note from one of my teachers on a project I'd handed in, expressing their concern about my work and myself, with sincerest wishes that my "family crisis" be resolved soon. It was showing in my work, and I knew it. I just couldn't bring out the sensual pieces I once could, opting for raw, dark, and powerful pieces instead. My inner turmoil on canvas.

Then there were the nightmares.

I'd been waking up at least once or twice a night ever since my first night back here after Daphne's. Screaming, thrashing, crying...the whole works. After Brian had mentioned therapy one day...I began blaming the lack of peaceful nights on stress, the extra homework...and just hoped he would buy it. If he was bringing up therapy...fuck, he had to know something was wrong. Brian Kinney did not do therapists without a very, very good reason.

But perhaps the part that hurt the most, the part that made my chest ache, was the fact that no matter what had occurred during the day...no matter what I'd said to him or how many times I'd turned him down...Brian woke up with me every damn time and held me until I fell back asleep. A couple times I think he was hesitant to touch me, after me not allowing it all day...but then I would fall into his embrace and just cry and fall asleep in his arms.

That was, all except for once...

It had been a truly horrifying nightmare, nearly two weeks after I'd returned. It had been a good day...Brian had had a lot of work to do here at home, and it was one of the rare instances with him that work came before sex. He hadn't made one move to touch me, and we hadn't even fought all day.

We'd gone to bed early, and for the first time since the night after the one I'd returned, he hadn't said anything about me wearing pants and a sweatshirt to bed. He'd wrapped an arm around me, and I'd settled back into his embrace. Everything was peaceful, and nice, and I _almost _felt...content, for the first time since it had happened. It had also been the first night since I'd returned that I hadn't cried myself to sleep.

It had become a ritual of mine. My breakdown after what was always a stressful day. I'd make sure to fall into that state with Brian after a fight where we're not really mad anymore, but we're in that place in between anger and forgiveness where he'd wrap his arms around me casually, but wasn't quite comfortable enough to try for anything more. I'd pull on my pajama pants and sweatshirt while he was in the bathroom, deflect his remark concerning the clothes with some comment about it being cold, climb into bed with him and wait until his breathing had evened out and I knew he was asleep.

Then, I'd allow myself to cry.

It was a pattern I'd repeated many times, but on that one respite of a day, the tears hadn't come. It had been a much needed reprieve from the usual miserable, angry darkness and arguing that surrounded most days. And then that night...it was the first in what felt like forever that I hadn't cried, had just drifted peacefully off to sleep, holding onto Brian's arm encircling my waist.

But the contented mood hadn't lasted...

"_Don't..."_

"_You'll like it, come on..."_

"_I don't want to!"_

"_Sure you do..."_

"_I DON'T!" _

"_That's it...get in...oh yeah, you're a pretty one, aren't you..."_

"_Stop! Please..."_

"_Please? Did you here that? He's begging! You want it? You want my dick inside you? Huh?" _

"_No...please, no..."_

"_Why not? It'll be great...you'll love it, I promise..."_

_Gary Sapperstein's face, twisted into a cruel, merciless smirk, hovered above me. I tried to fight, tried to move, tried to escape this hell...but I was bound and there was nothing I could do about it. _

"_Please, stop...don't..." I moaned. Begged. Pleaded. Anything. I tried everything. It hadn't stopped him. _

_The evil, distorted features above me were hazy, changing...Sap's raucous laughter ringing in my ears faded... to be replaced by a different face, a different voice. Deep, suave, and familiar. _

"_Brian!" My boyfriend's handsome, chiseled face stared down at me. He wasn't on me...he was just...watching, from somewhere...and the Sap wasn't there, but I still couldn't move. But Brian...Brian would save me... "Brian...help me...please help me..."_

_But he wasn't. Why wasn't he saving me? Why wasn't he making this stop? Why were..._

_Why were his eyes so cold?_

"_Brian, please..." I begged him, sobbing. He was so close...I was so close to being free..."Please help me..."_

_Brian tilted his head to the side as he looked at me, a cold, cruel laugh escaping his lips. "Help you? You got yourself into this mess, you stupid shit."_

"_What are you doing!?" I screamed at him. He was getting closer, closing in on me...but still not saving me... "Brian, stop!"_

"_Stop what?" he taunted. _

"_Brian, don't! Please..." I begged him, but it was no use. He was touching me...he was all over me and he wasn't stopping..._

"_Brian!" _

"Justin!"

My eyes flew open, and I realized three things almost simultaneously. One, it had been a dream. Two, I had been screaming. And three...Brian, _my _Brian...was sitting up in bed, staring at me, looking almost as scared as I was.

I didn't even bother to fight the sob that racked my body. God, that had been...that had been _horrible..._that was just...one of the worst nightmares I'd ever had, that was for sure. I was shaking violently, and I was about three seconds from tearing into the bathroom and heaving into the toilet.

_Hands on me, teeth biting, not stopping, inside me...and never fucking_ stopping...

I slapped Brian's hand away when he reached out to rub my shoulder. "Don't _touch _me!"

He let his hand fall back to the bed, looking apologetic, as well extremely unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do. "Justin..."

"Just _don't, _please!" I begged him. Just like in my dream. Just the thought of _Brian _being the one to...

"Justin!" he called out, but I was already on my feet and heading for the bathroom. He must have had the sense not to come looking for me, for which I was grateful, even though I know he could hear with unfortunate clarity that I had thrown up.

I laid there on the cool bathroom tile for a while, crying and trying to will away the mental image of Brian like that...eyes cold and empty, face above mine...hurting me. Brian would never hurt me, but that image in my head wouldn't go, and the idea that he _could, _scared me. I'd never even given it a thought before this whole fucking _thing _had happened... the idea of Brian _ever _doing anything to intentionally cause me pain had just never crossed my mind.

But now I couldn't get rid of it. He could do it. He was big and I was small. He _could _hurt me if he wanted to. He wouldn't, but...I just couldn't fucking erase it from my mind.

He was still awake when I emerged a good half an hour later. He looked up at me questioningly, but I didn't say a word. He had enough common sense and consideration not to touch me as I curled up on my edge of the bed, as far from him as possible, and went back to sleep about an hour before the alarm sounded.

And this time, I'd cried.


	6. Autopilot

**A/N: Pretty big chapter for Justin. Hope it doesn't disappoint.**

**. Brian-Saturday .**

I was running on autopilot, registering only on a subconscious level when I needed to stop at red lights, signal turns, adjust my speed. The routine was old. This sensation was old. I had felt this way before...I had _done _this all before. I knew how this went, this pattern, after all the weeks of having done this in the exact same state of mind.

"_Fuck, Brian! I said I have to finish a project!" he shouted, anger flaring to life inside him in a moment's notice...it was somewhat disconcerting. "I can't just drop everything whenever you happen to feel like fucking!"_

"_Will you quit fucking making it seem like I expect you to be waiting with your ass in the air whenever I say the word?!" I yelled right back. _

"_Then quit asking me to drop school work for you!" He was tearing up already, trying to keep his voice steady. "What happened, did you already fuck your way through all your worshipers at Babylon?! I'm sure you can go find one of them if you're that fucking horny!"_

"_Maybe I will!"_

"_Fine, then! Enjoy yourself!" he spat, throwing himself into the chair in front of the computer and turning his back to me. My hint to fuck off. _

_And so I did. _

Only once I pulled up in front of my destination did I finally come alive. I climbed from my vehicle and strode purposefully toward the shop, still with the deja-vu-like sense that I had done this far too many times before. Maybe this place was a first, but the routine, the pattern, wasn't.

I pulled open the door of the comic book shop; the bell sounded above my head, announcing my presence.

"...about a three day wait." Mikey looked up from the checkout counter, where he was balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, while trying to ring up a customer at the same time. "Yes, we do. Okay...that's great. Yes, thank you...all right, you have a good day." There was a click as he set the phone back in the receiver, and I waited impatiently for him to finish with the customer. Finally, the guy left, and Mikey and I were left alone except for a teenager on the far side of the store, rifling through comics.

"Hey," he said simply, offering me a grim smile.

I tried to smile back, but couldn't manage it. I knew he didn't expect it anyway. "Hey."

He watched while I raided the candy jar, waiting for me to speak first. He knew why I had come. The same reason why I had been over at his house a good three or four nights a week for the last three. I sighed heavily, leaning back against the counter. "He's getting worse," was all I said.

He came around from behind the counter to rest a supporting hand on my arm. "I'm sure it's not you," he tried to assure me.

"I know it's not me," I agreed. Whatever had Justin so fucking screwed up lately, it was not me. "But I don't know what the fuck it _is. _He won't talk to me."

Michael frowned. "Maybe he's stressed. You said he was under a lot of pressure at school," he suggested.

I shook my head, staring out the window without seeing beyond the glass, as though it held all the answers I searched for. I knew they had to be there somewhere. Right in front of me...the answer to this growing aura of darkness Justin seemed to exude lately. If only I could grasp onto something...I just needed a little to go on, just a hint.

"It's more than that," I remarked absently. "Something's not...right."

"Maybe it's his PTSD?" Michael offered next. I sighed again. We'd been through all this before. I wasn't sure why I even kept coming here whenever Justin and I had one of our seemingly baseless arguments...as though I kept hoping that one of these times, one of these fights...something would change. Something would give, and break this open to reveal it all.

"But _why?" _I asked, like always. "Why the fuck would it come back _now?"_

Mikey began shuffling the stacks of comics on his desk into neat little piles, a crease between his eyebrows. "He still won't let you touch him?"

"Barely."

"Is he still letting you kiss him?"

I shrugged. "If you can call them kisses."

Mikey nodded understandingly. "And the nightmares?"

"Notice the bags under my eyes," I said darkly.

"Maybe...something happened to him," Michael said, not for the first time. We'd discussed this before. We'd been over this so many times. "You said he's been hanging out with Daphne a lot? Have you tried talking to her?"

To be honest, I had thought about it, on several occasions. The main problem with that was that I could never get her alone with Justin there, and she never picked up whenever I tried to call her. Besides...

"If he won't talk, she won't," I said reasonably. That was true. If Daphne held the secret to Justin's newfound misery, she would never give him up to me. Most likely, she'd just tell Justin I had asked her about him, and then he'd be pissed that I was going behind his back or something, given his tendency as of late to find fault with nearly everything I did.

"Maybe a kid at school?" Michael asked. "Or even a Professor?"

I had thought about that, too. But Justin had never let the kids—or the teachers—at St. James push him around, and I highly doubted he'd start now.

"I'm..." I ran a hand through my hair, hesitating. "I'm fucking worried about him," I admitted.

Michael's hand found my arm again and squeezed. "I know."

I privately thought that he didn't know..._couldn't _know how uneasy I had felt these last three weeks. He was worried about the effect of this on me...maybe he was worried about Justin, but just like Daphne was there for Justin, Mikey was there for me. The ever supportive best friend.

Unfortunately, no matter how many times I came here, hoping he could help me find those answers I so desperately searched for, just point me in the right direction, I was no closer now than I was three weeks ago. And I couldn't help but feel like time was running out.

**. Justin-2 Days Later .**

"You feel like some McDonald's?" Daphne asked as we walked together along the sidewalk. We'd just finished up inside the clinic, where we'd barely been on time for my appointment for my second round of tests. That sick, nervous feeling had settled itself in my stomach again, but at least this time around, my bruises had faded, and hadn't been noticeable to the nurse who had drawn my blood. I looked a lot better, physically.

"I'm not hungry," I replied. I hadn't been truly hungry for a while. I'd maybe eat a little for lunch, and pick around at dinner, just enough to keep me going, but I hadn't been really hungry in weeks. Food just held no interest for me. Brian had actually been on my case about that, too. He'd even gone shopping one day, and bought a bunch of stuff he knew I liked. I had come out of the bathroom one day to see him putting everything away, bags of groceries all over the place. He hadn't made a big deal out of it, or even said it was for me, but when I opened the fridge and cabinets, all my favorites were sitting there. It was clear what he had done.

"Hey," Daphne said softly. I looked down at her. "Your last tests were fine. That's a good sign. There's a chance you don't have anything to worry about."

"It's not that," I sighed. Well, I _was _worried about my new results, but that wasn't why I didn't feel like eating. "Well, it is, but...I'm just not hungry." I couldn't explain it to her, and thankfully, she didn't ask me to.

She nodded. "Have you..." she hesitated, and I thought I knew what was coming. "Have you thought any more about...maybe telling Brian?"

I frowned. "No."

"Justin, I really think you should..."

"I can't tell him," I said sharply. "And you can't either. Please, Daph..." I implored her. "Don't say anything to him."

She bit her lip, but nodded again. "But...well, he's got to be worried. He has to know something's not right, Justin..."

"He does," I said bitterly. "Things have been so fucked up with us lately. But how am I supposed to tell him I was... I mean, he even fucking _warned _me it was a bad idea. He won't want anything to do with me," I said, blinking back the tears that always sprung up at this subject.

"It's okay," Daphne said quietly, seeing this, and rubbing my arm gently. "I'm just saying...I think he would try to help you. I _know _he would help you," she said thoughtfully.

"Yeah, that...or he'd kick me out of the fucking loft. It wouldn't be the first time," I said icily.

"But not for something like this," Daphne argued. "Justin, he's your boyfriend."

"Brian doesn't do boyfriends," I replied.

"Since when do you believe that?"

"Can we just drop it, please?" I begged her. She nodded, and fell quiet. I knew she was just trying to help, but...she had promised me she wouldn't tell Brian, I had made it clear that I wasn't going to, and now I just wanted to stop having to talk about it. It wasn't going to happen; I was just going to have to find some other way to deal. End of fucking story.

"You think...I'll be okay? My tests...?" I asked, swallowing the lump that had risen in my throat.

She sighed, and I knew she was trying to decide between the truth, and the answer she wanted to give. Sometimes she reminded me of Brian, with her unwillingness to lie just because it was easier than facing the truth.

"I mean, I'm negative so far..." I continued. "Right?"

She squeezed my arm gently. "Right."

I sighed. "I just keep..." I let my voice trail off without finishing my sentence.

"What?" she prompted.

I avoided her eyes. "I just...I keep wondering what the fuck I did to deserve all this," I admitted.

She looked at me carefully for a moment. "You didn't," she said firmly. "You didn't deserve any of this, Justin. You know you didn't."

"I guess it's what I get for being so..."

"Do not even finish that sentence," she said sharply. "It's not your fault. You know that...you do know that, right?" she asked when I didn't answer, narrowing her eyes.

I shrugged in a noncommittal sort of way.

"Justin..." she stopped walking in the middle of the sidewalk, bringing me to a halt and steering me to look at her. I glanced around reflexively, checking to make sure no one was within touching distance.

"This...this whole thing...it is _not _your fault. Okay?" she stared up at me, and I knew she was expecting an answer.

I sighed. "I guess."

"_No. _No 'guessing.' It is _not _your fault. You didn't ask for this to happen. That's why it's..." she glanced around and lowered her voice. "That's why it's called _rape. _Because you didn't want it. Because _they _forced you...it's _their _fault. Not yours."

I wasn't really convinced, but I knew she wouldn't let up unless I agreed. I faked a small, watery smile, nodding, and she let us continue walking. The undersized clinic parking lot had been surprisingly full today, and we'd been forced to park in nearby store's lot and walk, much to my reluctance. Knowing how many people were in there...how many cars were parked outside...it had almost been enough for me to refuse to go inside the building, but Daphne wouldn't hear of it. Finally, we stepped off the curb of the sidewalk and into the parking lot, crossing quickly to where her car was parked on the other side.

As we climbed in, a distant ringing filled the car. "Oh shit," swore Daphne. "Hang on, that's my phone."

She rummaged around in her purse until she found her ringing and vibrating cell, flipped it open and pressed talk. "What?"

I almost smiled. She even answered the phone like Brian.

"Are you _serious?" _I caught the urgency in her tone, and looked at her questioningly.

"Shit," Daphne swore loudly. "He is...he's not...he does? Well, tell him to wait...why not? Can't she take care of it? Fuck. Yeah...yeah I'll be right there. Okay. Fine." She hung up the phone and stuffed it back into her purse.

"What happened?" I asked immediately.

She let out an aggravated growl in the back of her throat. "That was my boss. She needs me to come in and help out. Today was supposed to be my day off, but apparently the new girl can't handle it on her own."

"Sorry," I winced. "That sucks."

She sighed. "Yeah. I guess I'll go in after I drop you back off at the loft." Still looking rather pissed at her co-workers, she shoved her key roughly into the ignition.

I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek. "You can..." I hesitated. The thought scared me beyond belief, but Daphne had done so much for me...couldn't I do this one little thing for her? "You can leave me here," I said. "I have a cell phone. I can call Brian to come get me."

"And how are you going to explain what you're doing all the way down here in the middle of the day when you're supposed to be at school?" she asked. "Besides, you don't need to be out here with all these people. I'll take you home."

"The loft isn't exactly on the way," I pointed out.

"I know that. It's fine. I'll go after I drop you off. No big deal." But it _was _a big deal. So it would only take her twenty minutes longer to drop me back off at the loft. That wasn't the point. The point was that she shouldn't have to. She shouldn't have to schedule her agenda around me like that, around my own irrational fears. She had her own life. The fears were part of mine, and mine alone, and that's how it should stay.

"Look, Daph..." I sighed. "Michael's comic shop is pretty close to here. A lot closer than the loft. Just drop me off there, and I'll call Brian to come get me. I'll say I just stopped by to see Michael."

She bit her lip. She was considering it. "Will you be okay there by yourself?"

I had my doubts, but Michael wouldn't try to touch me, and his shop would be closing soon, anyway. There'd be hardly anyone left by the time we got there. Besides, I owed Daphne this. "It's just Michael," I tried to sound nonchalant. So the idea of being without Daphne or Brian terrified me, like it had every moment that I was on my own, at the loft, or at school...but I could still do this, couldn't I? It was Michael. I'd known him as long as I'd known Brian...Michael would be fine, right?

I continued trying to convince myself the entire way to his store, giving Daphne directions from the passenger seat. Much too soon, we arrived at the little comic shop.

"You sure you'll be okay here?" she asked, the doubt as clear in her voice as it was inside my head. My uncertainties seemed to be picking away at any courage I'd managed to talk myself into feeling on the way here. It was like fighting a losing battle.

I nodded. "Yeah," I lied. "Go show the new girl how it's done."

She nodded and tried to smile. "I will," she promised, biting her lip, still looking uneasy about the whole situation.

"Daphne?" She looked at me questioningly. "Um, thanks," I said sincerely, looking her in the eye, trying to tell her everything I needed to say without saying it. "Thanks for...everything."

She nodded, understanding. "Any time." And I knew she meant it.

Reluctantly, I turned my gaze from her and reached for the door handle. I could do this. "Later," I said over my shoulder.

"Later," she replied, and then I was outside the safety of the car and shutting the door and leaving it's comfort and walking up to the shop. Daphne waited until she saw me open the shop door before pulling out of the parking lot.

"_Justin?"_

I jumped before realizing it was just an overexcited Michael hurrying around the checkout counter. I shied away as he grew nearer, and he seemed to take the hint and back off. Not that he would have hugged me or anything...but he was still in my space and he was much too close right now.

"Um...hey."

"What are you doing here?" he asked. He sounded shocked, though I couldn't tell if it was positive or negative surprise.

I shrugged. "Long story."

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" he asked.

"Class ended an hour ago," I lied. Okay, Brian would know that wasn't true, but Michael didn't have to.

"Oh. Well...I'm about to close up in a few minutes. You need a ride home? How did you get here, anyway?" he frowned.

"Daphne...she had a work emergency. I'll just call Brian and ask him to come get me."

"You sure? I don't mind taking you home," Michael said sincerely.

"I'm sure," I answered. "Thanks."

He nodded and went to help one of the last customers for the day, while I pulled out my cell phone and called Brian. He didn't pick up, but I left a message on his voice mail asking him to swing by on his way home and get me. I wasn't sure what I planned to tell him about why I wasn't in school, but I'd think of something.

"So..." began Michael, sliding back around the counter. "How've you been doing?"

"Fine," I lied. "You?"

He shrugged. "Can't complain, I guess. But...well...never mind," he said quickly, looking away as though he sincerely regretted even beginning the sentence.

"What?" I asked.

"Well..." Michael began awkwardly. "Brian's been...he's been kind of worried about you," he confessed.

"He has? Why?" I asked, playing dumb, while actually freaking out on the inside. Brian had talked to Michael about me? How much had he told him?

"He's been...he says you two have been fighting a lot. He's been over at my house three or four nights a week. He even came in here when I was open on Saturday."

Wait...Brian came _here? _He wasn't out fucking tricks every night, he was here, worried about me? That was...almost sweet. Painfully sweet. It hurt to know it...it hurt to know Brian was hurting. Just the idea that Brian wasn't out drowning our issues with random fucks, but actually sitting there wondering what was wrong with me...even if he was talking about me to someone else...he cared more than he let on, it seemed. Of course, I knew he couldn't be over at Michael's every time he left. Concerned or not, he was still Brian Kinney, but the idea that he actually cared made my heart hurt, at the same time as making me want to hug him.

"And...he says you haven't been yourself lately."

I avoided Michael's gaze. "I'm just...a little stressed, I guess." I fingered the edge of a comic book on the checkout counter.

"About what?" he prompted me.

I shrugged. "School. Stuff," I said evasively.

"Justin..." he began. I knew that tone. Brian had been using it more and more often. That fucking 'will-you-stop-trying-to-hide-and-just-tell-me-what's-going-on-with-you' tone. "If something's wrong...I think you should tell Brian about it. He's really worried. He just wants to help."

"I'm fine," I said firmly. Michael was concerned, I understood that...though it was much more likely that he was worried about Brian than whatever I was going through. Ever loyal, Michael would try to protect him in any way that he could.

But that didn't change the fact that I didn't want to talk about this, not with anyone, and especially not with Brian's best friend. However, Michael showed no signs of letting up.

"He thinks...maybe your PTSD came back," he said quietly. "Look, if something happened, if something's wrong, maybe you can get back into therapy or..."

"Nothing happened!" I said, my voice rising. The single customer in the shop looked up in alarm. Even Michael looked surprised.

"Well, _something _happened to get things to the point where Brian is coming to my house nearly every day to try to brainstorm what's wrong with you," Michael countered, a slight edge to his voice now.

"What, so you two just sit around at your house all day and talk about me? About what a fucking mess I am? Is that it?" I asked. I could feel the anger swelling inside me, brought on by that feeling of being cornered, and maybe a little guilt. Every day, every time I yelled at Brian...he wasn't running, or trying to drown himself away. He was trying to figure out what was wrong. Trying to fix things. Trying to help me.

"No!" Michael insisted. The bell above the door jingled as the customer let himself out without buying anything. "He's just really fucking worried about you! He says you haven't been yourself in weeks. He says you won't even let him touch you."

"He does, does he?" I spat.

"Yes! Justin, if something's going on..."

"What the fuck do you care, anyway?" It was a bit unfair, but I didn't really give a damn.

"Because! He's my best friend, and this is hurting him," Michael explained hotly. "And..."

"And what?" I demanded.

"And I think it's hurting you, too," he said quietly. "And I just don't get what could possibly be so bad that you have to put him through hell like this!"

"Well, maybe I'm going through hell!" I was yelling. I didn't care. The shop was empty. I was scared, and hurting, and angry...and I just didn't _care. _Michael, he was just...he was acting like I was doing all this for the sole purpose of hurting Brian...like I didn't care what this was doing to him. Didn't he know it killed me a little inside every time Brian walked out that fucking door? Didn't he know that I was hurting, too?

"Well then why don't you fucking tell him that, instead of screaming at him all the time?" Michael snapped, reverting to his well-worn habit of defending Brian.

"Because it's none of his fucking business! Or yours, so why don't you just fuck off, and stay out of it!?" I shouted back.

"Why don't _you _stop hiding like a fucking coward and tell him what's been going on instead of making him worry to death?"

"Because I _can't!"_ I was crying. Again. Nothing new there. I was crying hard and there was no stopping the tears.

"Why _not!?" _

"I just can't! So just _fuck off_ and leave me the fuck _alone!" _I screamed at the top of my lungs.

"Justin..." Michael said, his voice a little softer. He was at my side now. He tried to reach out and touch my shoulder, but I jerked away.

"Don't fucking _touch _me!"

He let his hand drop. "Why not?"

"Because I said so!" Wasn't that reason enough? Why did everyone seem to have this idea that they automatically had permission to touch me whenever they felt like it?

"Why?" he asked imploringly. "What the hell is going on with you?"

"Like you care," I snapped.

"I do care!"

"No, you care that _Brian's _hurting!" I said angrily. "You care that _I'm_ doing this to him! You don't care if something's going on with _me!"_

"That's not fucking true!" he said indignantly. "I want to help both of you!"

"You want to help _him!_ And if that means figuring out why I can't stand to let him touch me, then that's what you'll do! You don't care if _I_ can't even stand being in a crowd without having a fucking panic attack! You don't give a damn that I can't even go a fucking night without waking up _screaming!"_

"I _do _care! I just can't figure out why you're being so fucking selfish not to at least tell him what the fuck's going on with you!"

"_Because!" _Oh, I was selfish, was I? _I _was a selfish bastard because I could barely stomach food, because I could barely kiss my boyfriend, because every time I closed my eyes I could see _their _faces...and I couldn't tell him about it? I was selfish because I was so fucking _scared _of telling him, scared of not telling him, scared of _every fucking thing _in the entire fucking world right now, and couldn't let him know that? I was existing in my own personal hell, and I was selfish because I couldn't tell him the reason?

"Because _why?!" _

"Fuck off, Michael!" I warned.

"Tell me why!"

"Because I was _raped,_ okay!?"

No. No, I did _not _just...please tell me I did not just say...

Michael blinked at me. "You were...what?"

"I was fucking _raped!" _I shouted. Next second, the plastic jar of candy Michael kept on the counter was on the floor, its contents scattered everywhere. He didn't say anything when I threw it from the counter, just watched me, as though he wasn't sure what to think about anything.

I stood there, breathing heavily, tears streaking down my cheeks, unable to believe what I'd just done. Fuck, I'd told _Michael, _of all people...Brian's best friend...shit...no, no, no...couldn't I take this back?

With a calmness I couldn't even imagine feeling, Michael crossed over to the door and flipped the sign in the window over, so that it read _closed. _Meanwhile, I had sunk to the floor, face in my hands, nails digging into my cheeks to leave little indentations. I barely noticed.

"Justin..." Michael said softly. My face was buried in my hands, but I heard him approach and kneel in front of me, and felt him touch my arm gently. When I didn't protest, he pulled me in closer, his arms going around me tentatively. Somehow, as though the idea of him knowing unlocked something inside me, I was able to let him, and held on tightly, my arms around his shoulders.

"I know I'm hurting him," I admitted quietly. "I know, but...I can't..."

"Shh..." he soothed me.

"I just want to...just erase it, Michael...you know?" I cried into his shoulder. "And I just _can't..._I can't stop thinking about it..."

"It's okay...shh, it's okay..." he murmured. It was silent for a while except for my continued sobs. "Who did it?" he whispered finally. "How did...how did this even happen?"

I sniffed loudly. "It doesn't matter."

"It _does _matter. Have you gone to the police? Or a doctor? Have you gotten tested?" And he sounded genuinely concerned. About me.

"Yeah. I got tested," I told him. "The day after...but I can't...I couldn't go to the police..." I began to cry a little harder.

"Shh..." he said again, rubbing my back gently. "Okay...that's okay..."

We sat there for a while on the floor of the little shop, him holding me amidst the dispersion of candy, and I never thought it could feel as comfortable as it did. It was a good ten minutes before either of us spoke.

"Justin..." he said quietly, in a tone that suggested he had made up his mind about something. "Look, you've got to tell Brian..."

I sat up immediately, that familiar surge of panic coursing through me like an electric shock. _"No!"_

"Justin..."

"You can't tell him, you can't! Please," I begged him. "Michael, please..."

"He's your boyfriend...he'd want to know. He's really worried about you," Michael pointed out.

"I know, but..._please_, Michael, you can't...swear to me, you won't...please..." I looked at him pleadingly, tears still streaming down my cheeks, and his chocolate gaze stared back. I didn't think I'd ever felt so fucking desperate. I'd put myself in the exact position I'd been fearing since that night three weeks ago. Once again, I was powerless. Once again, someone else held my fate in their hands. Once again, someone else got to decide what would happen in my life.

He bit his lip, and I knew he was torn between his sense of loyalty to Brian, and compassion for me. His need to help his best friend, and his desire to help the pathetic, sobbing mess on his comic shop floor. Which one would win?

"I'm serious, Michael...you _can't. _Look if you..." I took a deep breath. "If you really care as much about helping me as you do about helping Brian, then...you won't tell him." I swallowed thickly, trying to control my urge to completely panic and lose it. He just stared at me for several moments, and I knew he was doing some serious thinking.

"Okay," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"_Okay?"_ I repeated, relief washing over me.

"I won't tell anyone," he agreed. "But, listen though, Justin...you need to see a...a therapist or something. You can't deal with this all by yourself." He was grasping my hand the same way Daphne had done just a half an hour ago on the street. His hand felt different, naturally, yet somehow familiar...the gesture was the same. It meant support. Comfort. Friendship.

"I'm not by myself," I said truthfully. "Daphne knows. She took me for my second round of tests at the clinic today."

Michael sighed. "It's not the same. You need to tell Brian...he can get you the professional help you n—"

"_No!" _Hadn't we just discussed that?

"Okay, okay..." he assuaged me. "You don't have to tell Brian."

"I have Daphne," I pointed out, as though wanting to make sure he knew that I wasn't completely alone.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat awkwardly, and pulled me a little closer again. It was so strange to be sitting here hugging _him, _of all people, but it was a good strange. A good surprise. For a moment I had wondered why I had been able to tell him when I hadn't even been able to tell my own boyfriend...but then I realized that maybe the typical lack of closeness between us actually had something to do with it. I'd just wanted him to shut up...see my side..when I had blurted out the truth. Wanted to see his face when he realized that Brian was actually getting the easier end of the deal. But I had felt the same way with Brian himself on more than one occasion these last couple of weeks. With Michael, though...there was less to lose, emotionally, by telling him than by telling Brian, or my mother, for example. Less fear of what he'd say to me, what he'd think of me. Just less to lose.

"Well...now you've got me, too."

And maybe something to gain.


	7. Broken

**A/N: Sorry, I wanted to have this up yesterday, but due to some computer issues, that didn't happen. **

_**. Michael .**_

By the time Brian arrived at the shop to pick up Justin, he'd stopped crying and was sitting, zombie-like, in a chair behind the counter, staring at his shoes. When Brian entered the shop, he had looked understandably bewildered. From what my best friend had been telling me, Justin refused to leave the loft except when absolutely, totally necessary, and now suddenly he was sitting in my comic shop in the middle of the day for no apparent reason. I listened while Justin rattled off some elaborate lie about his professor having to leave early and he and Daphne going out shopping, until a work emergency had resulted in her dropping him off here. I had never heard Justin lie to Brian, and was amazed at the ease with which he did it. _Well..._I thought bitterly..._three weeks worth of practice makes perfect. _

The hardest part had been that _look_ Brian had given me. Quizzical. Perplexed. His eyes begging to know what I knew. I had never wanted to tell him something so badly than at that moment. Justin kept shooting furtive glances at me, as though expecting me to burst at any second, and I'll admit, he wasn't exactly being paranoid, thinking I might. It nearly killed me to watch the two of them walk out of the shop together, Justin still staring fixedly at his shoes, grasping Brian's hand tightly.

Nothing, no far-fetched explanation Brian and I had come up with these last few weeks, had even come close to the horrible truth behind Justin's misery. Whatever I'd expected, it wasn't_ rape. _How could this even happen to him? I could barely wrap my mind around it. And now, just like Justin, just like Daphne, I held his secret in my hands. A secret I'd promised to keep.

I'll admit, when I said I wouldn't tell Brian, I hadn't actually made up my mind yet. Maybe it was a shitty thing to do...lying to him like that...but I just didn't have the heart to cause him any more anguish than he was already in.

On one hand, Brian needed to know the truth. Not only for him, but Justin couldn't continue to live like this. It was obvious this was tearing him apart from the inside, and I had a feeling keeping it a secret would only do him more harm. It would be wrong to let him continue to suffer like this. Plus, I knew I just could not look Brian in the eye and pretend not to know what was wrong with Justin, not when it was so plainly killing him, too. I wasn't doing either of them a favor by keeping this to myself. Not only that, but by not saying anything and letting Justin go on like this...well, I didn't know how desperate he was. It could possibly prove to be hazardous to his physical health, as well. Brian had mentioned that he wasn't eating much lately. Fuck knows what other damage he might do without sufficient intervention.

On the other hand, I couldn't quite ignore the image of him, sobbing on the ground as though his very soul ached, pleading with me to keep his secret. I couldn't forget the raw pain in his eyes as he looked at me, or the way he had been so quick to panic when I'd suggested he tell Brian. I'd told him I wouldn't say anything...he was hurting so much as it was...I almost couldn't stand the thought of hurting him more, even if it _was_ to help him. Though it would be in his best interests, I would feel as though I were committing some great act of betrayal. I_ had_ given him my word.

But what was a person supposed to do in this type of situation? What was right? It was either remain loyal to my best friend, who was in such pain, trying to find the answer I currently held in my hands, and who may be the only one who could begin to fix this...or remain true to my word to the victim, to the person who, really, was the only one who had any _right _to divulge the information. It wasn't my place to tell anyone if he didn't want them to know.

Fuck, I almost wish I didn't have to know this. I didn't want this decision. Either way...I'd be betraying one of them. I didn't want to have to choose which one.

I'd been expecting a call from my best friend, and he didn't disappoint. Half way home, my cell began to vibrate in my pocket. What was I going to say? I didn't have time to think about it.

"Hey Mikey," he greeted me quietly.

"Hey."

"So..." he began, hesitating. I knew why he had called, anyway, so there was really no point in him trying to pretend he wasn't dying to ask. "What was Justin doing at the store today?"

Shit shit shit. Should I tell him? Maybe...if I just kept quiet for now, I could convince Justin to do it himself? The rationalization seemed feeble, even to me, but I just needed...fuck, I needed some time to think. This was too big a decision to make on impulse. And just because I didn't tell him _now, _didn't mean I wouldn't do it at_ all..._

"You don't buy his shopping with Daphne story?" I asked, stalling.

"Not for a fucking second. He hasn't left the loft in three weeks except to go to school. Now he's suddenly going on shopping sprees with Daphne? I don't think so," Brian snapped.

"Where is he now?"

"The bathroom. Again," Brian said, his voice lined with poorly concealed concern.

"Well...did he say anything else?" I asked.

"Nothing. He barely talked to me the whole way back. So...he didn't say anything to you?"

I didn't answer.

"Mikey?"

"Um, sorry, I...busy intersection. Had to concentrate," I explained hastily. "No, he...he didn't say anything. I even asked him." I'd never been a good liar, but it had never been so important before. The stakes had never been so high.

"What did you say?" Brian demanded.

"I asked him if he was okay. I told him you were worried about him," I said, the knot in my stomach loosening just a little. At least that was the truth.

"And what did he say?" Brian asked sharply.

"He said he was just stressed," I said, trying to sound casual. That was true, too. Justin _had _said that. "He said he's got a lot going on at school."

"Do you believe him?"

"I..." I bit my lip. "I don't know."

Brian's sigh came in, loud and clear over the phone. "All right. Thanks, Mikey. I'm going to go see if I can get him to eat."

My stomach squirming uncomfortably, I nodded, forgetting he couldn't see me. "Yeah. Call me if you need me."

"I will."

I sighed heavily as I snapped my phone shut. I had just lied to Brian. And this wasn't like when I'd fibbed and told him that Ted was the one who had broken his brand new Prada sunglasses after I'd accidentally sat on them...this was something huge. Life-altering. Fuck, he'd never forgive me for not spilling the secret the moment I'd learned it. What was I doing? I didn't know how to even begin to handle this, but one thing was for sure...I had a decision to make.

_**. Justin-One Week Later .**_

All week, I had done my very best to keep Brian away from Michael. He'd given me his word that he wouldn't tell anyone, but...well, this was Michael we were talking about. Even if he somehow managed to be in the same room with my boyfriend for longer than ten minutes without breaking down and confessing, Brian knew Michael, he'd know something was wrong in a heartbeat. I'd made a grave mistake in telling him, I was sure of that...I knew Michael, too, and I knew that the inevitable guilt coupled with his inability to lie directly to Brian's face would eventually break him down.

So all week, I'd done my very best to keep Brian in the house, or at least tried not to give him a reason to go to Michael. I'd controlled nearly every impulse to panic, every urge to snap at him when he got too touchy for my liking or badgered me about not eating. The nightmares were still uncontrollable, and I had more school work than ever, but things were generally pleasant around the loft, at least for him.

"Hey, Sunshine," he greeted me one night when he got home from work. I was sitting at the table, working on a project, but taking a deep breath, I stood up and went over to him.

"Hey," I said, swallowing thickly, but wrapping my arms around his waist. I kissed him then, eyes slightly open and forcing myself through it, even poking my tongue out to slide across his bottom lip. It had obviously surprised him, as I hadn't done that in nearly a month_,_ but I felt him squeeze me a little tighter and kiss back softly, tentatively, and I supposed I should at least be thankful that he was gentle, and let me decide how far it went. Though I couldn't shake the thought that it shouldn't be this hard to kiss him this way, it made things so much easier on us. Maybe not on me, but on _us. _

I pulled away rather quickly, and the entire time he was in the shower, I'd spent sketching the only thing now on my mind. The thing I now associated with sex. Sapperstein.

I had drawn a couple of the others, too. At least the ones I could remember. Some of them I knew...well, knew _of..._and some of them I just knew from memory. I couldn't be sure how many there were, or how many times I'd been...well, I couldn't be sure of all the details. But I could remember some of their faces, their voices. Sometimes, I think I remember more than I'd like to, and other times, I wish I could remember more. I'm not sure if the knowledge of what happened scares me more or less than the stuff I don't know, the things I can't remember, and I know there are things I can't. Even if I did remember everything from my drug-induced haze (not likely), anything else could have happened from the time I blacked out to the point where I'd woken up on the floor with no memory of being deposited there. Though there was hardly anything else they could have done that would've made it any worse. They'd already done whatever they wanted, and hadn't cared if I'd been there to feel it...or at least mostly there. But still, sometimes I wish I knew exactly what had happened during that time I was unconscious.

I always thought of how, if Brian knew, he would most likely tell me to just forget, that I should block out what I remembered and stop trying to recall what I didn't. His answer for everything. Don't think about it. Just put it out of your mind. That had been his solution after the bashing...and it had been easy not to remember...for a while, anyway, when I would've given anything to remember, and my memory remained elusive for weeks. I could never quite help myself, though, from thinking about how my hand didn't work, or the way I was terrified to fall asleep for months, or how I couldn't be around people without feeling like I was being suffocated. There are some things you just can't ignore. Some thing are just _there, _in your life, entangled so deeply in who you are that there's no escaping it. It becomes a part of your life, a part of you...the way you think, the way you feel, the way you see the world...and you can't ignore that.

Just like I tried—and failed—not to let the fact that the one month mark of that night was coming up to get under my skin in any way. But it _was _affecting me. Even during the days leading up to it...it was like when you can feel fall coming, even before the increasingly dramatic drops in temperature or leaves changing colors...it was just something you could feel, a restlessness in the air, that I was carrying around inside my chest at all times.

This made it even harder for me to force myself through encounters with Brian, and the nightmares, down to about four or five times a week instead of the typical twice a night, pick back up again. I was clinging to Brian even more than usual, not to mention I was extremely distracted—something quite evident in my school work—and I spent more time at the window of the loft, sketching Sap's face, than anything else.

One the one month anniversary of my assault, Daphne had come over after Brian left for work. She'd mentioned having plans later with her mother, and offered to cancel in order to stay with me, but I refused. She had done enough. She'd been the one thing I could count on these last few weeks, the one stability in my life...my rock...but I couldn't ask her to stay.

She had made me a lunch that I'd barely eaten, and we sat and watched TV for most of the day. I knew that she knew what day it was, and that her staying over that particular day was no coincidence. It had been one month ago. One month ago today.

On this day, last month, I wasn't a rape victim. I was still whole. I was still pure. I was still able to sleep soundly at night. I could still draw whatever I wanted. I could still have sex with my boyfriend. There wasn't this _thing _between the two of us, constantly driving us apart. There was no weight on my shoulders or ache in my chest. There was no fear. There was no _them _or _that night. _I was still okay. I was still me. I was still Justin.

It was hard to believe it had only been a month.

A month ago, I never would've turned down a kiss from Brian. A month ago, I never would've told _Michael_ _Novotny _my deepest secret, whatever that was back then. A month ago, I never would've gone to that party if I'd known that this is what would happen.

Now, this was my life.

On TV shows, when something horrible happens to the main character, whatever it may be...you get a glimpse of the event. Sometimes not even that, sometimes just an implication. But then it's over, and the next time you see them, they're at their house or walking around school or at their work building or sitting in a park. Not better, but dealing. And the next time you see them after that, they're just a little bit further in their progress. There are no unimportant scenes. Each one serves a purpose. You see them dealing and healing and breaking and moving on.

What they don't show is what happens in between those scenes. When some traumatic event happens, you go right from the trauma to the metaphorical "morning after" stage. You don't see the way every moment is spent in fear. You don't see the way safety precautions become habits. You don't hear the thoughts running through their heads, or understand how every breath prolongs their own agony just by keeping them alive a few more seconds. You see the big events, the checkpoints in their recovery, you don't see the stuff in between. When it's not your life, you don't have to live every second with an ache in your heart. When it_ is_ your life, it's _every _part of your life. There isn't one thing not affected by it. There is no safe place.

There was nothing there for me. I had been living in fear ever since the moment, that night, that I realized I had lost all control. And now I was scared, not just after the nightmares or whenever there was people around, but I was scared _all _the time. Of everything and everyone. Of life itself. Unable to breath without feeling that fear, even still. Unable to heal. Unable to be anything but a victim.

Again.

God, I _hated _that word. _Victim._ It carried so much meaning. It meant powerless. It meant I wasn't in control of my own life. It meant I was out there for everyone to hurt, and it meant pain, and it meant not being able to do a damn thing about it.

It meant I lost a little of me to them.

They had taken everything. Hobbes, Sap...they had taken all that was me. My art, my livelihood, my innocence, my spirit. They'd taken Brian. And school. They'd taken my life. Everything I did, it was, in some way, tied into them. Into what they'd done to me.

I just wanted..._needed..._to prove that there was still a bit of _me_ inside. That they didn't get it all. They were ruining my life. They had long since passed out of it physically, but they were still ruining it. Look at things with Brian...they'd ruined my relationship. Fucking destroyed so much of what was good about it. And maybe they weren't finished. Maybe once Brian had enough and left me, once school decided they'd made enough adjustments for me and threw me out, once my world was completely and utterly fucked beyond the point of no return...maybe they would be happy. Maybe they would be satisfied.

Because all of that would happen, eventually. My life would end up in a place I couldn't fix. I was too afraid to let almost anyone near me. PIFA would only take so much of my sporadic bullshit. Daphne and Michael, the only two people who knew, would only be able to deal with this for so long...they had their own lives to live, after all. They would inevitably grow tired of dealing with mine. And Brian would get sick of always arguing, never having sex, and me taking up space in his loft, in his life, when I no longer had anything to offer. The most I'd done for him in the last month was make him fucking coffee and dinner, and maybe clean the loft a few times in between visits from the cleaning lady, who's schedule I'd convinced my boyfriend to change to those days I went to PIFA. But Brian wouldn't keep me around much longer if that was all I was giving him. A month was almost more than I'd expected as it was.

But what was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to get past this? Should I be past it already? How fucked up was my life going to have to be before I could begin to fix it? Maybe...

Maybe I should have tried to fix it a long time ago.

It was this precise line of thinking that had caused me to do what I did in the first place. Going to that fucking party. Thinking that I could fix things. Thinking I could, just maybe, exert some control over my own fucking life and make things better for myself.

Thinking I could take care of myself.

Maybe this time, on this day, one month later, it would work.

I had been waiting all day, so scared I felt sick, for Brian to come home. He was late...he'd told me he would be. He had some dinner thing with a client, so I hadn't bothered to order any food.

_I could do this._ The pain may be strong, but I was stronger, right? I could do anything I truly wanted to do. They didn't control my life anymore. None of them did. _I _controlled my life. Or I would, if I could do this one little fucking thing...

Besides, it would help, wouldn't it? It would make everything better. For everyone. Brian would be happy, I would be in control, and that would be one less thing I had to worry about. And it _had_ been a _month..._

I was in the bathroom when he came home. Not crying, or showering, just...breathing. Bracing myself for what was to come. I kept up a barely reassuring mantra in my head. _Don't be a victim. Don't let them win. Time to take control. Don't be a victim... _

Returning back here to the loft the first time after the attack had been almost nothing compared to this.

I took a deep breath when I heard the door open. It was time. This was long overdue.

"Justin?" I heard Brian call, and, nerves crossing the line into nausea, I went to greet him. Just like I'd been doing every day that week, I slipped my arms around his waist and kissed him. I was getting good at it. Just as long as I kept my eyes open a little so that I could see him, I was okay. But today, that wasn't going to be enough.

He made a little noise in the back of his throat when my fingers slipped just inside the top of his pants.

"Justin?" he asked, pulling away. He had lately taken to merely hinting around at sex, rather than outright suggesting it, or resorting to too much touching. It would occasionally go a little further, but it was as though he'd settled for testing the waters before diving in. It relieved me as much as it distressed me; He'd stopped expecting things...he'd stopped thinking he would come home one day and everything would just be better. But as far as I was concerned, his new 'no expectations' policy only brought us one step closer to the total breakdown of our relationship.

"Brian," I whispered, and pressed my lips to his. He responded, but when we broke apart, he still looked confused. "Come on."

He followed, obviously bewildered, as I led him through the loft and up the stairs to the platform. I'll admit, I _had _missed Brian's body. Or at least, I'd missed _wanting _Brian's body. Missed wanting his musky Brian scent around me, feeling him crawl up and over me, wrap his arms around me, pull me to him, desperate to feel and touch and be inside me. I hadn't exactly craved it, but I'd missed _wanting _to crave it, if that makes any sense.

I sat down on the bed, and tugged his hand so that he came to stand between my legs. He looked down at me as though unsure if he should trust...well, any of this. In response, as if to show him that this was really happening, I reached up to unbuckle his belt, conveniently at eye-level, biting my lip and trying to control my shaking hands. Finally, I managed the simple task and removed the belt from his pants, letting it drop to the floor.

I'd been expecting it from the moment of the clatter of the belt against the ground, but my breath hitched when he pushed me gently back against the bed, swooping down to kiss me.

_Fuck, don't panic...it's just Brian...you love him...you want this..._ I told myself, but then another, rougher voice took precedence in my head.

"_You want this, don't you? You want me to fuck you, don't you, Taylor? Little whores like you like to be fucked..." _

I gasped, and Brian looked up from my neck, which had been actively receiving his undivided attention. "Feel good?" he asked, and I knew he hadn't really mistaken the gasp for pleasure, but was actually genuinely asking if that was what it was. Coming back to myself slightly, I managed to nod.

"Don't stop."

I kept my eyes open as he resumed his gentle ministrations on my neck. Again, I was grateful for his tenderness...I supposed he was expecting me to freak out at any second and start yelling at him, like I had done nearly every time he'd tried to touch me like this for the last month. But I had to do this. For myself and for him.

I did this, and I wouldn't be a victim. I could prove, once and for all, that _I _was in control of my life. That they couldn't hurt me now.

I did this, and Brian wouldn't consider kicking me out. He'd want me. He'd let me stay. I could stay safe, here with him. Fuck, I couldn't lose this. If I lost this, I lost everything. All I had to do was let him fuck me...

"You taste good, Sunshine," Brian remarked, voice muffled against the skin of my collarbone, slowly uncovering more skin.

"_Swallow it! That's it...careful, don't choke...so how's it taste, blondie? You ready for some more? You want to suck my cock again? Have it down your throat...you little slut..."_

Wait, no...that wasn't real. That wasn't real, that wasn't happening now... "Brian..."

"I'm going to fuck you..." he muttered, and his hands were under my shirt and stroking my skin, teasing my nipples, his touches soft and easy as his voice.

"_Welcome to the party...you're going to have a lot of fun here, I promise. So, who wants to go first?" _

_No one...please no one...stop touching me...why was he still touching me...? Get _off _me!_

"_Ah, we'll all take a turn fucking that gorgeous ass...let's see how much you can take, blond boy...oh yeah, you were made for this..."_

_Wait, don't! Please help me, somebody help me...Brian! Brian, where the fuck are you? Why am I here? How do I stop this? Please make it stop..._

"_An ass like yours...it's just begging to be fucked...so hard...I bet you're tight..."_

_Fuck, no...no they shouldn't be there...don't touch me there, just make it stop...no, no, no...stop it! _

Brian made a soft noise in the back of his throat, his lips just above the top of my jeans, my shirt unbuttoned and exposing my chest...and for the briefest of moments, my mind flashed, not to that horrible night in that swing, but to a happier time in our lives...I could remember what it felt like, when he would fill me up with himself and make me feel so good all over...when he'd bury himself inside me so deep that I could almost still feel him the next morning...fuck, I used to love that I could always feel him, ever since that first night, he was with me, just like he'd wanted...

But this amazing, beautiful illusion—or was it a memory?—lasted only seconds, gone almost before it came. And then the warmth of Brian was gone and I was cold and bound and there were rough hands and skin and _they _were there instead...thrusting themselves inside me and down my throat and they were inside my fucking _body _and they shouldn't be and I couldn't stop them...

"NO!"

I had never felt so out of control of my own body. None of the panic attacks I'd ever had could have measured up to this. It was more like I was watching this happen, feeling it as if watching a movie...rather than living it. I just couldn't breathe and couldn't think and couldn't feel anything but fear and suffocation and desperation like I'd never known it.

"_No_! Stop!" I yelled when Brian tried to touch me, maybe to comfort me, I couldn't tell. I could hear his voice, as though from far away, but it was like I was partly inside my head, and partly there with him, and partly there with _them, _and I couldn't sort out what was real and what he was saying or what I was doing...

Brian wasn't on me, but _they _were...no, they weren't here, _Brian _was here...but he was touching me...no wait, _they _were touching me... _"Don't!" _

"Justin!"

"I said _don't!" _

I was dimly aware of the tears running down my cheeks, and squeezed my eyes shut. "NO!" I screamed when that fucking _face _leered at me from the darkness.

And suddenly I was on my feet and running for the door, barely conscious of what I was doing or of Brian's voice or him chasing me, and the next thing I knew I was bolting down the steps in a blind panic until I reached the street outside. There were people around, which only increased my terror, and I was running and I couldn't breathe and couldn't see through the tears in my eyes. All I knew was that my feet were moving, Brian was somewhere behind me, I had no idea what was in front of me and there were people all around. I was trapped, just like I'd been trapped in that swing, trapped with them...defenseless, powerless...

I didn't know how, once I calmed down and just wanted to feel Brian's arms around me again, I was going to explain this to him. Out of the blue, after a month, making him think that I wanted what I'd been holding back for so long, then freaking out and going crazy on him like I did. The way I had the very first time I'd ever had a nightmare after the bashing, in the hospital. I'd panicked them, too...had that same inability to tell dreams and delusions from reality. But here, now...it didn't make sense. It wouldn't to him, anyway. Nothing about any of that made any type of sense at all, unless you factor in that I'd never felt more fucking desperate in my life, except for maybe in that fucking swing... What had I done?

I had fucked up. Again. I had tried to fix things and made them worse. Fucking things up beyond repair seemed to be about the only thing I could actually accomplish. I'd fucked up my relationship. I was in the process of fucking up my chances in school.

I'd fucked up my entire life, and I was getting sick of having to live it.

_**. Michael .**_

I had settled into my favorite chair in the kitchen, a bowl of cereal in front of me and a Captain Astro comic propped up against the box, when a knock at the door made me jump.

Frowning, I got up to answer it, half expecting to see Emmett, having returned early from his night out, and forgotten his key. Again.

I swore softly when I opened the door.

"Michael..." There was Justin. Crying. Looking more fucking miserable than that day in the comic shop. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah...of course..." And I let him inside. He thanked me quietly, sniffling.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, wiping away tears. "I didn't know where else to go...I mean, I would've gone to Daphne's, but she had this dinner thing with her mom tonight, and she was already with me all day..."

"Shh, it's okay. I don't mind," I assured him. I moved to touch his arm, but he jerked away, so I backed off. "What's going on?" For one fleeting, fearful moment, I wondered if he'd finally told Brian the truth...had Brian kicked him out or something? But I quickly shook the thought from my mind. Brian may be an ass, but he wasn't that heartless.

He shook slightly with the force of his sobs. "I...I'm so..._fucking _screwed up!" he cried, running his hands over his face and through his hair. "I'm such a fucking..._mess, _I_..._" he gasped. He couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"You got to breathe, Justin. You're going to hyperventilate," I said sternly. He was already close. "Come on, look at me, _look _at me, Justin..." he looked up. _"Breathe."_

He nodded, and slowly, his erratic breathing pattern began to even out. It was another few moments before he spoke as he finally caught his breath. "Michael," he said finally. "I tried, to...I just wanted to make things better...for me and him..."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded calmly. His body convulsed with the most powerful sob yet, and I had to restrain myself from reaching out to him again.

"I tried to have sex."

Oh.

"I tried..." he cried. "I just wanted to fix things myself. I didn't want to leave...I need Brian...and I wanted to be okay...I didn't want to...I didn't want to be a victim," he explained. At least, I think that was an explanation. I didn't really understand what he was talking about.

"Shh," I said again. "Let's go sit down," I suggested, and, making sure to keep my distance, I led him inside to the couch. He sat down on the far end, pulling his legs up underneath him, and I sat on the other side, making sure to leave a generous amount of space between us.

"Where's Emmett?" he sniffled, glancing around as though expecting him to come bounding into the room at any second.

"Out. He won't be home for a while," I told him, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to relax just a bit. "But you need to talk to me, here...what happened? You tried to have sex? _Why?" _I couldn't understand it. A week ago, he could barely kiss Brian, and now he was trying for _sex?_ It didn't make any sense.

"It's been a month," he said in a choked whisper. "A fucking month. And I'm still not...I want to be better. I want to, so much..."

I chewed on this for a moment. "But, Justin..." I said slowly. "These things take time..."

"I don't _have _time," he said sharply. "I can't...I can't be a victim. I can't do this anymore. I just_..._I can't do any of it."

"What do you mean?" I was trying to get it, trying to understand. But...well, he _was _a victim. A rape victim. I mean, I get not _wanting_ to be, but I didn't get how having sex would keep him from being one.

"I wanted...I wanted to know I still controlled my life," he admitted. "They fucked up _everything!_" he yelled suddenly, and I wasn't entirely sure who the 'they' was in reference to. His rapist and Hobbes maybe? "I mean, Brian's not going to wait around forever..."

"So, wait...was this for you, or for Brian? Because if it was for Brian...Justin, I..." I had no words for that. If he was trying to force himself through this shit on Brian's account...

"Both," he admitted quietly. "I just...can't take anymore, Michael. I still feel so fucking _trapped." _He looked up at me, and didn't think I'd ever heard someone sound so _broken._ The result of suffering too many times, at the hands of too many people. He'd been assaulted physically, by that asshole classmate of his, sexually by the sick fucker who had done this to him...and he wasn't even fucking _twenty _years old yet. How much shit did he have to go through before the world was fucking satisfied?

"I just...want to..." he struggled to find the right words, and another tear slid down his cheek. "I don't know. Fuck, I want to stop..."

Hurting. I thought he'd say he wanted to stop hurting. It was, to me, the natural end to that sentence.

"Living," his voice cracked as he shrugged helplessly.

And that was not an acceptable substitute.

My stomach clenched tightly at that word. He wanted to stop _living? _He wanted to...did that mean he wanted to _die? _Well, no...I was sure he didn't want to stop _living, _just stop living like _this..._but Jesus Christ...was he thinking suicide? Suddenly, I wanted to kick myself for even considering keeping his secret to myself.

"Justin..." I whispered. He jumped, and the glazed curtain his eyes had suddenly fallen behind snapped open, as though I'd just pulled him from some sort of trance. Maybe I had. "Don't...don't even say that," I said weakly.

He sniffed again, closing his eyes, more tears leaking from beneath them. "Michael, I don't know what to do. I just can't keep doing _this,"_ he whispered, and yet he sounded so certain, if only of his own doubts. "I thought I could be...I _wanted _to be okay...strong..."

"You _are _strong," I said honestly. Fuck, after the bashing, being raped, and all between the various periodic emotional assaults of one Brian Kinney...I don't think I've ever met a teenager stronger than him. Hell, I don't think I've met a stronger _person _than him. He may be in a vulnerable place right now, but that didn't detract from his strength...it didn't make him any less a person.

"But...I'm scared," he confessed. "I'm so fucking scared. What if I...what if I lose Brian? I can't let that happen, Michael, I can't...I need him. And what if I'm never better? I'm just so _fucking done. _Trying to...trying to deal with this _all _the fucking _time..."_

"You're not going to lose Brian," I assured him softly. "He won't leave you. And neither will Daphne, and neither will I. And you _will _be okay, you'll get through this."

"How do you know?" he asked, his voice thick with tears.

"Because. I'm older than you. I'm wiser," I said, meeting his puffy, tearful eyes across the couch, and I thought I might have caught the hint of a potential smile, but maybe that was just wishful thinking, because upon second glance, he looked as heavyhearted and broken as ever. "And because you have everything you need around you to get through this," I added quietly. He didn't answer.

"Hey..." Hesitantly, I reached across the couch and took his hand in mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. He looked at me beneath long lashes, teardrops still clinging to them. "Everything will get better. I promise."

"How can you?" he asked fairly.

I looked at him steadily. _Because I know the way you heal. I know who heals you. _"I just can." He averted his gaze to the fabric of the couch, his lack of a response conveying exactly how much he doubted my words more clearly than if he'd expressed the opinion verbally. "Do you want to stay the night?" He nodded wordlessly, still not looking at me. "I'll get you a blanket."

I returned a few minutes later with a pillow and blanket, only to find him fast asleep on my couch, cheeks glistening with dried tears, somehow appearing unhappy even in his sleep. I sighed. Who would have ever thought, that night I'd first seen Brian checking out this blond boy under that streetlight, that we'd have ended up here? That he'd be here, over a year later, on my couch after he'd been brutally attacked for a second time?

"Goodnight, Boy Wonder," I whispered, and draped the blanket over his slumbering form, setting the pillow against the arm of the couch. I didn't think I'd ever felt more sorry for anyone in my entire life. I'd never seen one person in so much pain. How could someone do this to him? I mean, we weren't exactly the best of friends, but Justin was, I'll admit, a pretty sweet kid. He was a good person. Why did all these fucked up things have to happen to him? What had he ever done to deserve something this horrible and inhuman? It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

And it wasn't fair, I realized, for me to sit here knowing what was wrong with him and letting him live like this. That wasn't right either. He was in a fucked up place right now...but I was supposed to have the clear head, the objective point of view...I was supposed to do what needed to be done. And now I knew what that was. He may hate me for it, but it was what was best for him, hurting him to help him. Justin needed to begin to turn his life back around...he needed a turning point on this fucked up path he was on. I had promised him his life would get better, and this time, I planned on keeping my word. It was time he started getting the help he needed.

It was time for Brian to know the truth.


	8. Poison

**A/N: This is a pretty major chapter, and I think it's one you've been waiting for. Hope it doesn't disappoint anyone. **

_**~Michael~**_

The morning after Justin had shown up at my place was...simply put...a mess, with significant confusion, concern, and hectic communication on all sides. Justin had gotten up before me, and disappeared, leaving a note thanking me profusely and informing me that Daphne had picked him up. Emmett called me at four in the morning to tell me that he was crashing somewhere else, and Brian had called four times throughout the evening, though I hadn't picked up...so that when I called him back the next morning, I was immediately greeted with him demanding to know why I hadn't answered my phone.

"I left you four messages," he spat. "Don't you ever answer your fucking phone?"

"Sorry, I fell asleep watching TV," I lied. "Was it that important?"

"Oh, you were fucking asleep? How nice for you. I wouldn't know what that feels like, since I was up half the night trying to find Justin."

"Did you?" I asked, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth.

"Daphne called me this morning. She said he stayed at her house. He was still sleeping when she called."

"Did you ask her what was going on? I mean, she finally talked to you..." I asked hopefully. Maybe I wouldn't have to do this after all...

"She hung up before I could ask her anything. It doesn't matter, she won't tell me anyway. Michael...he tried to...have sex with me last night," there was an abrupt change in his voice. Less edgy, less angry...softer, scared. "I walked in the door, and he was kissing me. He seemed fine, I thought he wanted it...I don't know what happened. He just started screaming and crying and ran out." I could tell it was taking everything Brian had to keep his voice even through that. I could hear the worry, the fear, however hard he tried to disguise it.

I sighed. "Brian...listen, why don't you come over later today?" I didn't want to do this over the phone. I didn't even want to tell him what this was about until he was in front of me. If I so much as told him it was about Justin, he'd freak out and demand I tell him what I knew, and there was no way I'd be able to fight him on it. He needed someone next to him when he found out the truth...he didn't need to be alone.

"Yeah, fine. When?"

"Around six sound good? Come over after work."

"Fine, I'll be there. I've got to go, Mikey. I'm going to try Justin's cell again, in case he's awake...I want to talk to him."

"Okay," I said softly. "Call me if you need me."

"I will. See you later," he promised. We said goodbye and hung up, and I simultaneously felt immediately more tense and also exceptionally relieved. I was sure I was doing the right thing in telling Brian...he needed to know, Justin needed him to know...it was the best thing for all involved, even if Justin couldn't see it.

But that also meant that I was going to have task of telling Brian myself, and I wasn't quite sure how to do that yet. How was I going to tell him that Justin, his boyfriend, the person he loved even if he couldn't admit it...had been _raped?_ It would fucking destroy him. How was I supposed to deliver the blow?

The ringing of the phone startling me out of my train of thought; I answered it hastily. "Hello?"

"Michael?"

"Justin? What happened to you this morning? I came out and you weren't there..."

"I left a note," he defended himself quietly.

"Right...how did you get to Daphne's?" I asked.

"She texted me this morning to ask me how I was doing. Yesterday was...hard, you know?" he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Are you still with her?"

"Yeah. I asked her if she could pick me up from your place...I'm at her apartment. Listen, Michael..." he hesitated. "I just wanted to make sure...I mean, you won't tell Brian about...about last night, will you? Daphne already told him I stayed with her. You're still going to...you won't tell him anything, right?"

I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. Not even noon, and already my head was starting to throb. "I just got off the phone with him, actually. I didn't tell him anything." There was silence for a moment.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," I repeated.

He sighed. "Thanks. He just called me. I didn't pick up."

"Justin, you've got to go back sometime," I said reasonably.

"I know. And I...I will. But, I don't know what I'm going to tell him," he admitted. He sniffled into the phone, and I was sure he was crying again, or at least close to it. He seemed to be permanently on the brink of tears as it was.

"Just...go back to him. He's worried. You can deal with anything else, just...go back to him," I advised.

"Yeah," said Justin after a moment. "Yeah, I'll go back. But...I don't know what I'm going to do."

It was my turn to sigh. "Just hang in there. Everything will be okay." I would be making sure of that, come around six this evening.

"Michael? Um...thanks. For...everything. I really appreciate it," I could hear the sincerity and gratitude in his voice, and my stomach sank.

"Yeah...any time."

"I um...I've got to go. My cell phone battery's almost dead," he said, though I was sure he was lying. "Um...bye."

"Bye, Justin."

Well, that was one way to make me feel like a total shit. He was thanking me, thanking me for being someone he could trust, someone he could come to, and here I was, making plans to betray him. I felt guilty, as I knew I would, no matter what my decision regarding this whole situation would turn out to be. But I had finally made up my mind, and I planned on following through. I owed it to both of them...Brian deserved to know, and Justin deserved some real help. It was time they try a new tactic and start actually dealing with this, because obviously their way wasn't working.

**~Justin~**

I fucking knew that coming to him had been a bad idea. An unbelievably colossal lapse in judgment.

All my effort to keep Brian happy, keep him away from Michael, give neither of them a reason to worry...all ruined by my inability to just fucking _deal. _

I thought I could let Brian fuck me. I thought I could push past the memories and handle it. After all, it was Brian's loft, Brian's bed, Brian's body...nothing like that house, or that swing, or all of _their _bodies. All the times, particularly in our earliest days, when I would've given anything for Brian to fuck me, choose me over one (or more) of his random tricks...and now here I was denying _him. _But he'd been kissing me, licking and touching and all over me...so familiar, yet it almost felt foreign...and I just couldn't stop my brain from retrieving those memories...those words, those voices, those bodies, those hands...that sensation of complete violation.

I couldn't have been thinking too rationally at the time. In fact, I knew I hadn't been. I had been panicky and out of control and I wasn't thinking straight, obviously, because I went right to the person who I never should have fucking told in the first place. I had remembered something about Daphne having plans with her mother, and she had already stayed with me the entire day...I couldn't ask her for more. It wasn't fair. I couldn't go to her, and I couldn't go back home to Brian, and I couldn't bear to explain anything to anyone else...Michael had been a big enough mistake. So I'd just run...went to _his _house...just so grateful that he let me in and let me stay.

So now what?

Now, I was here at Daphne's, who I had fled to when I'd woken up and been desperate for her brand of comfort, not to mention needing to get away from Michael's as soon as possible, needing someplace that felt safe...with Brian waiting for my return and an explanation, and Michael, like a ticking time bomb, causing me even more stress. It was like everything was closing in on me, falling to pieces. How was I supposed to fix this now?

Well, Brian would be at work today, wouldn't he? I had plenty of time to get home before he came back, and decide what to do from there, but...fuck, I felt so trapped inside this. I was running out of options.

**~Brian~**

I could barely concentrate all fucking day at work. There was something about a new client...a presentation tomorrow...something about—I don't even know. How the fuck was I supposed to concentrate when I couldn't stop thinking about the events of the night before? Justin...what the hell had happened? In all honesty, I'd been terrified when he'd suddenly, without warning, started screaming. He didn't seem quite...there. One minute he was kissing me and telling me not to stop, and the next I wasn't even sure if he knew I was in the room with him. I don't know where he went in his head during his panic episodes, but it had sounded terrifying.

It felt like...poison. Some dark, malevolent poison, seeping into our lives, messing with his head, screwing with his progress, fucking up everything. Undetectable. Try as I might, I just couldn't find the source. And I was beginning to feel hopeless, as though the poison had infected me, too. Like the entire search was fruitless. I wouldn't give up on him, but I was beginning to wonder if this was beyond me. I felt helpless. Scared and so fucking helpless. Just like that night in the parking garage, watching him bleed his life out onto the cold concrete floor. Just watching. Not being able to do a damn thing about it. Just wait. Endure.

I think that might be the worst feeling in the world.

Standing up suddenly, I grabbed my briefcase and began throwing papers inside it. I snapped it shut, turned off the computer, and stormed from the room.

"Cynthia, I'm leaving," I said as I strode past her desk. "I'll be gone the rest of the day."

"What's going on?" she asked, sitting up a little straighter in her chair.

"I just told you. I'm leaving." I made it to my car without another word to anyone, and just sat for several minutes, fingers clutching the steering wheel tightly, before pulling out of the parking lot.

I knew I had work to do, but for once it could wait. I pulled out my cell phone, hit a speed dial button, and cursed when Justin didn't answer his phone. Keeping one eye on the road, I scrolled through my phone book, found the number I was looking for, and hit 'talk.'

"Hello?"

"Daphne."

"Brian?" she sounded surprised.

"Were you expecting someone else?" After all, it was _my _phone number that would be showing up on her caller ID. And I knew she recognized it, as I was fairly certain she'd been exclusively avoiding my calls for the last several weeks. Nice of her to finally fucking pick up. I'd told her to have Justin call me when he woke up, but it was now several hours later, and I was sure he was awake by now.

"Why are you calling in the middle of the day?" she asked.

"Where's Justin?" I demanded, ignoring her question.

Silence. "Where the fuck is he, Daphne?" I repeated loudly.

"He's still here, okay?" she admitted. "Don't worry. But...he just wants to be alone. He shut himself in the spare room. He doesn't want to talk to anyone."

I sighed. "Did he...say anything to you? About what happened?" I knew there was a one in a million chance that I'd actually get her to tell me anything important, but I had to try.

More silence. "He told me...he told me what happened last night. That's it. Look, Brian, I've got to go, okay?"

"No, just wait a..."

"Bye..."

"Will you just fucking wait a sec—damn it!" I cursed, my fingers clenched into a fist. She knew. I was sure of that. She knew what had happened last night, and she knew why. And now Justin was sitting over there, shut up alone in a room, in fuck knew what kind of emotional state.

I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I nearly missed my turn. Snapping into full consciousness, I pulled into the parking lot of the Liberty Diner.

The atmosphere inside the place was the emotional inverse to how I felt. Comfortable and lighthearted, it contrasted starkly with my heavy, disconnected mood.

"Hey, sweetie!" Deb greeted me as I slid into a seat at the counter. I knew I hadn't had much of a chance of not running into her if I came here, but I had to admit, an encounter with her wasn't exactly as opposed to as I might pretend. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"Everyone needs a day of hooky now and then, Deb," I drawled, feigning casualness. "Besides, it'll be interesting tomorrow morning to see how much they managed to fuck up without me there."

"I'm sure they'll live."

I just flashed her my usual smirk in response. "Can I just get some lemon bars, to go?" It was time that Justin returned to the loft, and I was sure he hadn't eaten over at Daphne's any more than he had at home. He'd always loved lemon bars, and since he certainly wasn't venturing out to the diner to get them himself anytime soon...well, the place really wasn't too out of the way from Daphne's apartment. If I played my cards right, I might be able to get him to eat something for once. I was sure he had lost a couple of pounds recently.

"In a minute."

I was, by now, very used to Debbie's 'you'll get what you want when I get what I want' attitude, so I just raised an eyebrow, inviting her to go on and lecture/yell/reprimand me for whatever it was I had done this time.

But I could see in her face, in her eyes, hear it in the way she sighed...that this was something more than whatever random thing I had done lately that she'd taken offense to. "I want to talk to you about Sunshine."

I turned my gaze to the counter briefly, before forcing my eyes back up to meet hers. "What about him?" I asked. Maybe I should order something to drink, too...my mouth was suddenly very dry.

"Well, I haven't seen him," said Debbie. "He's practically a missing person. What's going on with him?"

I looked at her steadily for a moment, wondering if I should tell her...then realizing I didn't have much to tell even if I wanted to. "How the fuck should I know?"

"What do you mean, _how should you know_? How can you not fucking know? You're living with him, aren't you?" Debbie demanded shrilly.

"No, Deb, I kicked him out weeks ago, didn't you get the memo?" I said sarcastically. I really wasn't in the mood for her 'somethings wrong—let's blame Brian' routine right now.

She glared at me, made some equally biting remark, and went to get me the lemon bars.

"Hey, look who it is! And on a _work_ _day,_ too..." said an all too familiar voice from behind me.

Shit. I closed my eyes. I was so not in the mood for this.

"Well, well, Mr. Kinney...I never took you for the hooky-in-the-middle-of-the-week type. Don't you have some important pitch to make? Some million-dollar account to land?" Yeah. Recognized that voice, too.

"Don't you two have jobs?" I muttered as Theodore and Emmett slid up to the counter on either side of me.

"Ah, the great thing about being your own boss, Bri..."

"Never mind," I interrupted Theodore. "I made the mistake of acting as though I actually cared."

"You do know that hooky-from-work days usually involve _fun?"_ asked Emmett, catching my frown, and folding his arms across the counter.

"Thanks for the tip."

"Aw, let's give him a break, Em. He's probably just upset about Babylon. Whatever will King Kinney do without a club full of Pittsburgh's finest supply of hot young men every night of the week?" Ted patted my back consolingly, and I swear I was about to rip his arm off. Did I honestly _look _in the mood for this shit right now?

However, my curiosity and the irritating feeling of them apparently knowing something I didn't about something I _should _know about, got to me. Perhaps if I asked, they'd be smart enough to just tell me what was going on without whatever disparaging remarks they were undoubtedly cooking up. Doubtful, but worth a try.

"What about Babylon?" I asked, resisting the urge to start drumming my fingers on the table, waiting for Deb with those fucking lemon bars.

"What's this? You don't _know?"_ Ted asked. "Really?"

"You mean Babylon's ruler, the almighty king, hasn't heard the news about his own _kingdom?"_ Emmett gasped.

"Will someone just tell me what the fuck's going on?" I snapped. Neither seemed the least bit bothered by my waspish attitude. I suppose it loses some if its affect once everyone gets accustomed to it over time.

"Babylon's shutting down until further notice," Ted said matter-of-factly.

"What the fuck for?" I demanded. Great. More good news.

"Well, it's pretty horrible, actually..." said Emmett, his entire cheerful, teasing demeanor changing at once.

"It really is," agreed Ted, suddenly serious as well. "The owner, Gary Sapperstein? You know who he..."

"I know," I said swiftly.

"Well, he got arrested," said Emmett, his voice hushed. "One of the dancers...is pressing rape charges."

My eyes widened. Okay, when he said Sapperstein was getting arrested, I'd thought drugs or something....but shit, a rapist...I'd seen that guy around...spoken to him...we all had, at one point or another during our Babylon years.

"Yeah," Ted said, reading the expression on my face. "I know. I mean, I knew the guy was a sleaze, but _rape..." _

"Apparently the guy, the dancer...got invited to some after hours party at Sapperstein's house," Emmett continued solemnly. "From what we've heard, there was more than just Sap involved, too. It's not official, but they're saying he even named all his friends who were in on it. He didn't want to go down alone."

"But really, _knowing _what kind of guy Sap is...the guy still went to the party? I mean I'm not saying it was the guy's fault, but that's fucking dangerous, no matter who you are," Ted was saying, but I wasn't really listening.

Something had just...

No, not _something..._a brick...a fucking tidal wave...had just slammed into my gut...

_Party...Sapperstein...Justin..._it all fit...

He had..._Justin _had gone to a party...he'd gone to one of _those _parties...

Something had clicked into place...knocked the wind from my lungs, the thoughts from my mind...I felt sick...everything inside me was just exploding...I don't even know how to describe it...it was just so sick and twisted up and wrong...

Fuck. Oh _fuck..._that couldn't be...but it was. That was it. It was the answer I'd been looking for, I was sure. It had to be. It was...

They'd raped him. They'd _raped _him...they'd fucking _raped _Justin, just like they had raped that other dancer...how had I not seen this before? How had I not connected the dots? How had I not even spared a thought about that fucking party? How had I not _known? _

I sat there, exploding or imploding or whatever the fuck I was doing inside my head without anyone noticing, until Debbie set the lemon bars in front of me, jerking from my moment of horrifying realization.

"You okay, honey? You look a little pale," she frowned, reaching across the counter to put a hand to my forehead.

"Keep the change," was all I said as I tossed a twenty on the counter, grabbed the lemon bars, and then I was off. I could hear Ted and Emmett behind me, as well as Debbie ordering me to have 'Sunshine' call her later, but I barely heard them...

There was no room for them. My thoughts consisted solely of two desires. As I threw myself into my jeep, lemon bars tossed haphazardly into the passenger seat, the two raged war inside me.

_Get to Justin..._

I had never wanted, _needed, _to see him so badly. Suddenly, I wanted to scream at the distance separating us until he was standing right beside me. He was okay...well, he wasn't, but he was safe...but I needed to see to believe. I needed to hold him, twist my fingers in his hair and pull him to my chest and feel his warmth in my arms before I could be sure.

The other one, the other desire...was not such an honorable one. But it was the thing, the _only _thing, that had any chance at all of stopping me from tearing through everything in my way until I reached Justin...

_Kill._

Kill. They'd raped him. I would kill them. I would fucking _murder _every last fucking _one _of those bastards...and I knew it had to be more than one...it had apparently been that way with the other dancer...Sapperstein had probably...

_No. Don't go there. Don't think about..._

But how could I not? Just knowing made it impossible _not _to think about it...fuck, I needed to see Justin...right fucking now...

I realized I'd been wrong before. Feeling scared and helpless was not the worst feeling in the world. Knowing something terrible had happened to someone you care about, picturing it in your head, knowing they had suffered like that, _were_ suffering..._this _was the worst feeling in the world. And there was no running from it.

~.~

I was hammering on Daphne's door, heart pumping wildly, within a half an hour of leaving the diner. I felt electrified—consumed with fury at the fuckers who had done this, twisted with pain at the thought of what Justin must have gone through. I banged a little harder on the door. Finally, she opened up.

"Where's Justin?" I demanded tightly. I was shaking, and I could tell I was scaring her a little.

"He's...he's, um..." she stammered.

"Where the _fuck _is he, Daphne?" Deciding not to wait for an answer, I put my hand on the door to push it open. "Let me in." I was getting in there to him one way or another.

"He left!" she said hurriedly. "He went back home."

"When? I just talked to you, you said..." I began.

"We were at the loft then...he didn't want me to tell you where he was. He just wants to be by himself. He barely even let me near him all day. He's...he's really freaked out." Daphne said weakly. _By himself?_ Not fucking going to happen. "Brian, what's going..."

"You know, don't you?" I interrupted suddenly, eyes narrowed. All this time, she'd known. I knew she was his best friend, and would never betray him in such a huge way, and normally, I would respect that. But right now, I just couldn't. She had fucking _known, _all this time, what had happened, and she hadn't told me. Knowing, now, what it was that had him so miserable...how could she not tell me something like this? I could've been there for him. I could've tried to help him. I could've done _something._

"Know...?" she repeated.

"You know what happened to him," I said darkly.

She looked confused. "I know last night you..."

"Not last night, last month. You know what happened," I corrected. "You fucking knew this whole time."

Her eyes met mine, and said it all. I shook my head, huffing in a mixture of anger and disbelief.

"Brian..." she started.

"I've got to go," I said abruptly. There was more she wanted to say, I could tell. There was more I wanted to say, too. More I wanted to know. But it could wait. I turned around and headed back down the hallway, back outside, and into my jeep. All I wanted was Justin, and it felt like he somehow he kept slipping through my fingers. He had run last night, he had run from Daphne's...well, no more running. He couldn't hide any longer. Not from me, not from this...it was time to deal.

I was going through everything, all his weird new habits, every encounter I'd had with him these past few weeks, in my mind. It all fit, and it made me sick. Every time I'd tried to kiss him, every time I'd gotten irritated when he seemingly chose school work over sex...I had only been making things worse, and that thought intensified the knot in my stomach. Christ, if he had tried to do what he did last night for _me..._I'd never forgive myself. If I did guilt...no, fuck that. This was one time I wasn't going to disregard my remorse. He was suffering...he'd been raped and was going through hell I couldn't even imagine...and I was practically pressuring him into sex. I was such a total shit.

Wearing clothes to bed, turning me down, refusing Babylon, mood swings, anorexic diet, nightmares, PTSD symptoms, closing off, panic attacks...

They all made sense now.

The party had been a month ago. How had he kept this from me for a month? More importantly, _why _had he kept this from me? He'd been violated in the worst possible way, and he kept it hidden for weeks. Let me worry, let me feel helpless and scared on his behalf, let me know he was suffering without knowing how to help. Why hadn't he told me? Did he think I'd be angry or something? Well, I was angry...furious, actually...but none of it was directed at him.

I was going to rip Sap into pieces. I didn't care if he was in jail, at Babylon, or the fucking moon, I would find some way to get to him, and then I was going to hurt him. Make him bleed and cry until he begged for mercy. Right then, I knew I was more than capable. I could kill him. I could do it, and I could make it hurt. I could kill them, kill them all, because they had killed him. They had murdered that part of him I treasured most...they'd suffocated that little spark in his eyes until it had gone out. They'd tortured him, obliterated the part of him that was Justin, that was Sunshine, and I'd murder them for that.

And I'd enjoy every minute.

I sped through at least three red lights, disregarded most speed restrictions, and swore at anyone who was going less than ten miles per hour over the limit—namely, everyone but me—until I pulled into a random illegal parking zone outside my building, and took the stairs all the way to the top, too impatient to wait for the elevator. I couldn't seem to move fast enough.

Finally, after what seemed a fucking eternity, I threw open the door and punched in the alarm code he'd been kind enough to give me after he'd changed it. He hadn't set it on the immediate alert mode since the day he'd told me he'd changed the code, but since then, I was always half-expecting it to go off the moment I opened the door. I was dimly grateful that I hadn't given him shit for it then. He'd been obviously miserable for a week and a half, and I'd figured if it helped him, I could just learn the new alarm code. No big deal.

Only now it _was _a big deal. He didn't feel safe here. Not anymore. He didn't feel safe in his own home, and that was a problem.

"Justin?" I called, some of the urgency draining from my body. He didn't need to see me freaking out. I had to be calm, strong, collected. I had to deal, so I could help him deal. _"Justin?"_

"In here. I'll be out in a minute."

The bathroom. Should have known.

I crossed the loft, up the platform stairs and to the bathroom door, rapping on it lightly. "Justin," I said. It came out as a strangled sort of whisper. "Open the door."

No answer.

Shit, all those times he'd been locking himself behind this door...I had no idea what he was doing in there. I mean, I'd assumed he was drawing or showering or something, but...what if he wasn't? I hadn't seen him in anything but sweatshirts and jackets and such for a month. There were razors in the bathroom. Maybe I was getting ahead of myself, but it was a strong possibility. What if he was...

"Open the fucking door, now." Nothing. "Justin, _please!"_ I didn't say the word often. I didn't like to sound like I was begging. But at the moment, I didn't care. I needed him to open that door more than I'd ever needed anything. I had to see him...had to, right now.

There was movement behind the door, and it creaked open just a crack.

"Justin..." suddenly I realized that I had nothing planned out to say. It was...odd. Looking at him. Not that I really saw him any differently, it was just...I was seeing _everything _in a new light. This was Justin, standing here in front of me. Justin, the guy I lived with. Justin, my sort-of boyfriend. Justin, my sort-of boyfriend who'd been raped, and hidden it from me...

"I'm sorry," he whispered, opening the door a little wider. My gaze swept over him quickly. He seemed okay, though I couldn't tell much from beneath his sweater. "I didn't mean to freak out and run off last night, I'm sorry."

"Forget about it," I said distractedly. I took a step toward him, saw his shoulders tense, and was once again struck by utter amazement that I hadn't figured this out sooner. I'd been so preoccupied with being pissed at him those first few days, and after that, all thoughts of the party had slipped my mind. Out of everything that could have been wrong, how was I supposed to know it was_ this? _How could I have guessed? I just should have. I should have...

"Justin, I..." I hung back, wanting more than anything to pull him into my arms, but resisting, for his sake.

"What's going on?" he asked softly. "Why are you home?"

"I wanted to talk to you," I confessed.

"About what?" he sounded scared. "How did you know I was here?"

I took a deep breath. "Daphne told me. Justin..." I said again, clearing my throat, forcing myself on. I had to just do this. I had to ask him, straight out. "What...what happened at that party you went to?" I asked, my voice wavering, as hard as I tried to keep it strong. "Sapperstein's party?"

I saw the realization on his face the moment it hit him. No more secrets. No more hiding. It was all in the open now, and he knew it.

"How do you..." he began, then seemed to change his mind. "What do you mean? It was a party. I just...stood around."

But his breaths were growing increasingly shallow and more rapid. Still under control, but they wouldn't be for much longer.

"That's all?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing else?"_ Just tell me. Trust me. I'm right, aren't I? You know it. Tell me so I know...I'm done guessing... _

He looked at me, and for a moment, I was sure he was about to tell me everything I knew but didn't want to hear, when suddenly, without warning, he shoved past me, nearly knocking me to the ground, and was racing for the door.

"Justin, get back here!" I yelled across the loft, but then the door slammed shut and I could hear the muffled sound of his footsteps thundering down the stairs.

"_Fuck!" _I cried. He hadn't gotten much of a start, but it was enough. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, he was gone. I hurried outside, glancing up and down the street, but I didn't see him. Swearing again, I took the stairs back up to the loft two at a time, grabbed my keys and cell phone from the counter where I'd left them, and hurried back down, dangerously short of breath myself by now as I dialed my phone.

"Daphne," I barked into it as I climbed into my jeep.

"Brian? Did you find him? Are you home?"

"He ran off," I told her, backing out of my illegal parking space with one hand, and holding the phone to my ear with the other.

"What do you mean, he ran off? What the fuck did you say to him?!" Christ, she sounded more like Debbie than Debbie did.

"He knows I know, all right? He got scared and ran. If he comes over, call me on my cell."

"Okay," she agreed. "What are you doing now?"

"I'm looking for him. But if he comes over, call me. I've got to go." I hung up without another word, and hit a pre-programmed speed dial button.

"_Hey, you've reached Captain Astro's sidekick, Mighty Mike. Leave a message, and I'll call you when we get back from saving the galaxy!" _

Skipping my usual eye-roll at my best friend's humiliatingly corny voicemail message, I got right to the point. "Yeah, Mikey, I'm not going to make it over today. I'll call you...sometime. Later."

I pressed the 'end' button, and hit another speed dial button. "C'mon, pick up your fucking phone, Justin..." But there was no answer.

I drove around for another hour at least, to all Justin's old favorite hang outs, to anywhere and everywhere I thought he might be. For a panicky kid on foot, he sure could disappear when he wanted to. I called Daphne twice more, and resisted the desire to phone Debbie and Jennifer, as well. If he wasn't there, freaking them out by letting on that I couldn't find Justin would help no one.

So, finally conceding defeat, I returned to the loft, desperately hoping that he had come home while I was gone. I tossed my keys on the counter again, but my phone remained clutched in my hand. If he called, or if Daphne called and he was there, I didn't want to miss it.

I climbed up to my bedroom and began to strip of my suit, pulling on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt instead, and checked the messages on my answering machine, but there was nothing. I tried calling his phone one last time, and sighed when I heard it ringing from the couch. I went over to pick it up, and, ignoring the fact that it was a total invasion of privacy, pulled up his most recent text messages. Three or four were to me, but the rest were to Daphne. The majority were about petty things...movies that had just come out, Daphne's boyfriend, favorite coffee hangouts that I was sure Justin hadn't frequented in the last month...but there were a few that caught my eye, as well as making my stomach drop another few inches. Several about me. Some about him. Usually right after we'd had a fight, or during the day when he was at school. There were several hasty texts during apparent panic attacks, a few confessing his fear that I would realize what was going on, and, much to my dismay, some with him openly admitting that he was afraid I'd be kicking him out any day.

Shit, was that really what he thought of me?

"Jesus, Justin," I said quietly to no one in particular. I snapped the phone shut, not wanting to read anymore, and turned to the item next to it. His sketch pad.

He'd been extremely careful about leaving his drawings lying around after that day I'd come out to see him sketching and crying on the couch. Fuck, that had been...that had been the second day after the party, hadn't it? Cautiously, I picked up the sketchbook and flipped it open.

"Shit."

There was Sap. Pages and pages of him. Some with him looking straight out from the book, some with him leering as if from above, looking down at an angle. Sap smirking. Sap glaring. Sap's face, twisted in anger. Sap bleeding. Sap dead.

And there were more. More guys. Fuck, were these all his attackers? His...his _rapists?_

I stopped on the most disquieting picture yet, even more so than the ones of his attacker lying dead on the ground, as that wasn't too far from what I'd been imagining in my head all afternoon, anyway.

But this one...it looked more like a memory on a page than anything. Was this what it had looked like to him? Was I looking at the image of what he'd gone through?

It was shaded and hazy around the edges, as though the peripheral vision of whoever's eyes I was apparently looking through wasn't quite clear. But it was still horrifically apparent what I was looking at. Men...above, around...everywhere. Reaching out, smirking, laughing, expressions of glee and pleasure on their faces. It looked evil..._they _looked evil, and it was obvious that the person who had drawn this thought so, too.

I flipped the page, and was met with some relief. It was me, only I wasn't...complete. My upper body, my face, my shoulders, my chest (bare), were all complete with his usual amazing talent, but the drawing stopped abruptly at the hips, just fading off into nothing. I turned the page again. Me. No shirt. Obviously sleeping...he'd always loved drawing me like that...but again, it left off as soon as the hips angled downward.

Next page. Next one. Next one after that. All the same.

I closed the book and set it back on the couch cushion where he'd left it, running a hand through my hair, more uneasy now than ever.

Was this what he'd been doing all those times he shut himself in the bathroom? Granted, I'd rather him be doing this than pulling out razors, but seeing this, seeing what he must be seeing, what must be haunting his thoughts every fucking minute of every fucking day and night...it killed me to know how much he was hurting.

I closed my eyes, trying to rid my mind of the image of Sap and the others...just the thought of them filled me with a rage I had never thought possible.

And what about those ones with me? He couldn't draw the way he used to...I mean, what he _had _drawn was amazing, as usual, but...he had always had a particular feel for the natural human form...and now he just....couldn't do it, it seemed. Couldn't make himself draw it.

The sound of slow, even footsteps on the stairs made my heart rate accelerate. I sat very still on the couch, pressing myself into the cushions, where I was nearly invisible at first glance. I strained to listen, not making a sound, relieved that I hadn't bothered to turn on the lights when I'd come in, as I had still been able to see well enough without them. After a moment, I could hear the key in the lock, and the door sliding open and shut again. The footsteps stilled for a moment, before beginning to head toward the bedroom. I could hear him on the stairs, and heard the closet door open.

I stood up, and silently made my way over to the bedroom. I watched him for a moment as he dug out a duffel bag from the depths of the closet.

"Going somewhere?" I asked gently.

He gasped and whirled around. "Brian..."

I slowly began climbing the stairs, stopping at the top, blocking his exit. "Put it down," I said softly.

He dropped the duffel bag at his feet, avoiding my eyes. So I looked at him. Just looked, studied as though he were a fascinating project. So...this was Justin? Panicked. Innocent. Scared. Guilty. Hurt. Bleeding. What was I supposed to say to him? It was so quiet, so still...both of us waiting, so I spoke...said the only phrase running continually through my mind, as though determined not to let me forget it.

"You were raped." Maybe it wasn't the wisest thing to fall from my lips, but it was the one true fact we had to go on right now. The one truth. And like always, truth was something I was good at. "They...they raped you, didn't they?" My own misery was evident in the way my eyes stung with unshed tears, the way my voice was strained and the way it cracked painfully.

His bottom lip was trembling, and he closed his eyes. They had. It wouldn't matter now if he denied it or not...I knew what was true. They'd done it. They'd raped him. Just hurt him like he meant nothing, like his life was nothing to them, thinking they had the right to put this horrible _thing _in it...

"Justin," I whispered.

A flood of tears spilled out from under his eyelids as he stood there, looking so small and hurt and I just needed to wrap my arms around him so badly.

"Justin..." I said again, taking a step toward him. "It's okay..." I didn't mean that this situation was okay. That everything was, in general, okay. Because it wasn't. But it was okay for him to tell me. It was okay for him to trust me, and need me, and it was okay for him to break down. It was okay not to run anymore.

"It's not," he argued. _"Nothing's_ okay..."

At last, I reached him. A foot apart, he looked up at me, and even though he hadn't really said it, I could see the answer in his eyes. That pain...raw and openly bleeding...it spoke louder than anything.

He didn't protest when I touched his arm, or when I pulled him against me, crushing him against my chest. Gratification. I was holding him. He was here with me, and there were no secrets between us. He was here, and now I could protect him. Now I knew what was wrong, and I could help. Or at least, try to. But we would deal with that later.

Now, I just wanted to hold him and never let go as he sobbed into my shirt, clutching me as though I was his lifeline.

I wouldn't promise him that I'd make it better. I wouldn't promise him that one day, it would be. I couldn't. I didn't know any of that. All I knew was that I'd do everything in my power to help him through this, whatever it took. Whatever was in my power to give.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Brian. I'm so sorry," he cried. "For...for everything..."

"Shh..." I soothed him, clutching him even tighter against me, a few tears leaking out of my own eyes into his hair.

"You were right," he continued, and I didn't think I'd ever wanted to hear those words less. "I should've listened to you. I'm sorry..."

"Don't," I said sternly. I didn't have the heart for my 'sorry is bullshit' routine right now, but I wasn't going let him go on apologizing for something that wasn't his fault. None of this was his fault. Fuck, if either of us was to blame, it was me. How could I let him go to that thing? What kind of guy sits back and lets this happen to his own boyfriend? Why hadn't I just _made _him take that fucking money? I knew Sap had been bad news...why the hell hadn't I done anything?

We stood there for a long time, him crying, sobs racking his body while I held him. After a while, I moved us to the bed, laying us down and pulling him close, until finally his crying abated slightly. I didn't think I'd ever been in this much pain. It was just...tearing me apart, knowing this had happened to him. I didn't know the details of what he'd gone through, but...why the fuck did it have to be him? Why did all these things have to fucking happen to _him? _I didn't want to think about it, but I couldn't _not _think about it...and if it was killing _me, _I knew it had to be a hundred times worse for him. It was killing us from the inside, both of us.

How was I supposed to fix this?


	9. Truth

_**~Justin~**_

So far, my world has been hanging by a thread....a thread I was all too aware could snap with the smallest tremor. Then Brian asked me about Sapperstein's party, and the whole thing came crashing down around me. A single thought stood out among all the others...terrifying me, shaking me to the core...

_Brian knew. _

He was upset, it was obvious. He was upset and he was asking me about that party...he knew. There was no way he didn't. I had never told Michael the details, so I was sure that either Daphne had told him, or Michael had and Brian had just worked out the specifics for himself. Either way, I didn't want to think about them betraying me, or about Brian knowing, or about whatever was coming next as a result...I didn't want to think, didn't want to feel, didn't want to face what was waiting for me...

So I ran.

I just had to escape the suffocation...the walls closing in...it was crushing me, and I couldn't breathe...

I ran into the streets, panicking when there were too many people around. I'd just kept on the move for a while, too scared to stay still even in the sparse crowd on the streets. So I'd taken refuge down alleys, behind dumpsters...I'd just wanted to come back to the loft, but it was like every time I took a step toward my destination, I'd freak out and go two steps back.

I was sure Brian would be out. Whether looking for me, or at Michael's, or someplace to fuck away his pain...he'd be gone. So, over an hour and several near panic attacks later, I returned to the loft to find it seemingly deserted. The lights were off, it was quiet, and Brian was nowhere to be seen. Later on, I would see the keys he'd dropped on the counter, but they were behind an ashtray and from the angle I walked in, I had missed them, or I would've turned right back around.

I had thought he was out, gone...but I didn't know how long it would last. Despite this, I moved deliberately slowly...wanting to take it all in, one last time. I had to go somewhere, now that Brian knew. He wouldn't want me here...and even if he did, by some miracle, let me stay, it would be like after the bashing...he'd feel obligated, and I didn't want to be an obligation. I wasn't sure where I would go or what I would do...maybe Daphne would let me stay with her, at least for a little while, until I could somehow get a place of my own....

So I'd gone to get my old duffel bag out of the closet. It wouldn't be enough to pack everything, but I could take the essentials and come back for the rest later, maybe while Brian was at work. Only I never got that far.

I nearly had a heart attack when Brian himself spoke from right behind me.

And I nearly went into shock when he told me—not asked, but told me—what he knew, and hugged me, took me into his arms—the only place I've ever felt truly safe. And God, it felt so good to finally be able to cry in his arms like that, the truth exposed, no need to try and hide my pain.

"_You were raped." _He didn't sound angry. He sounded...agonized, if anything. But he was holding onto me and I was crying and he was crying... I'd cried until it felt like I was sobbing out the pain...harder than I'd ever done in Daphne's arms, harder than I had in Michael's...I could feel the weight of the secret I'd been carrying for weeks lifting off me. It was relief. It was comfort, at last. It was Brian, and he knew everything, and he still wasn't pushing me away. At least, not yet. I only hoped it would last.

"I didn't know," he said softly. We'd been laying in his bed for so long, I'd lost track of time. I was no longer sobbing, but the occasional tear still escaped my eyes and slid down my cheek into his shirt. I didn't think I'd ever be able to stop crying. Every time I thought I'd finally cried out all my tears, another wave of pain would hit me and more would surface from somewhere inside. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. Again, he didn't sound mad, he just...wanted to know.

I felt my stomach sink. Guilt. Whatever I was afraid of, even if he really did kick me out...he had had a right to know what he was living with. No matter how scared I'd been, he'd still had a right to know the reason I'd been putting him through all this.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, closing my eyes and pressing my face harder into his tear-soaked shirt. "I'm so sorry."

"Quit apologizing," he said sternly. "I'm not fucking blaming you. I'm just asking you a question."

I sniffed loudly. "I was scared."

"Of me?" he asked, his voice echoing with disbelief.

"No....maybe," I admitted. I sat up suddenly, staring down at him. "Look, Brian...I don't want you to think you have to keep me around. I can leave...I'll find somewhere to go. Daphne..."

"You're not going to Daphne's. You're staying here, Justin," he said firmly. I felt mingled surprise and relief wash over me. He almost sounded like...like he wanted me here. I wasn't stupid enough to believe that he truly _did _want a sniveling, pitiful rape victim here with him, waking him up every night and crying all the time...and maybe he'd change his mind, but at least right now, for this moment, I didn't have to leave his arms.

"Really?" I asked. "You don't...want me out?" Maybe I was pushing my luck, but I couldn't get over the fact that he wasn't pushing me out the door as we spoke. He wasn't even hinting around at it. There was no 'we'll see what happens' or any shit like that, no promises of 'we'll think about it later'...he was just letting me stay, as far as I knew. Maybe not forever, but for now. Until he said otherwise. Had I been wrong, all this time, in thinking he wouldn't want me living here if he knew?

"Is that really what you think?" he demanded, sitting up, too. "You think...I'm going to kick you out on your ass because I found out you were...you were hurt?"

"No," I said, though it didn't sound convincing, even to my ears. _I _couldn't stand being in my own skin half the time...so how could he want me around? It just didn't make sense to me. I knew he cared about me, but I also knew there had to be a limit. I just wasn't sure what it was yet. I wouldn't know until I crossed it. "I just...don't want you to have to deal with this, Brian. That's what you did after I was bashed...you went out of your way to help me. You put your fucking life on hold. I don't want you to feel like you have to do that again. And why _should _you put yourself through that? I'm...I'm a mess, I'm...I'm damaged goods..."

"Don't fucking say that, Justin!" He sighed in aggravation, and pinched the bridge of his nose when I flinched at his sharp tone. "Don't...don't think like that," he said, his voice a little more gentle. "You're not...you were hurt, okay? You were raped. I think that justifies you being a mess right now...and you're not...you're not damaged goods. So don't fucking say that."

I sniffed again, avoiding his eyes and staring at his duvet instead. It was already starting. It was the same thing I had done after the bashing. I'd moved in on his life, so selfishly forcing him through months of my own shit because I couldn't deal without him.

He leaned forward and forced my chin up to look at him like he does when he wants my full attention, holding my face steady with both hands as he looked at me. Into me. I'd always loved his eyes, they were always so beautiful in their color and intensity...but right now, they were stormy and glazed over with tears and it hurt to look at them, knowing that they were like that because of me. "I meant it when I said I wanted you to stay here. I never specified conditions, did I?"

I gave the closest thing to a small smile as I could, and fell back into his chest, his arms going around me as he pulled me back down to the bed with him. I decided to let let the living arrangement thing go for now; I didn't much feel like arguing with him about it. Brian always won arguments, and I didn't have the energy to fight a losing battle at the moment.

"I'm sorry...I made you worry so much," I apologized. I was sorry for that. I was sorry I hadn't told him the day after it happened. I was sorry for all those stupid little arguments I'd initiated. I was sorry for making him cry. I was sorry for bringing this into his life. I was so sorry for everything.

"Shh."

But I couldn't. I had kept this inside for so long, and now, with him knowing, it was like permission to let it all out. Permission to hurt. "I can't...I can't stand this, Brian," I said quietly, more tears leaking from my eyes. "I tried, but...I'm so sick of feeling like this _all _the fucking time. It's when I'm awake, it's when I'm asleep, it's when...when I'm with you..."

"I know," he whispered.

"You don't," I said softly. He cared, but he didn't _know. _"They were just...all over...inside me— I've never let anyone...I've never let anybody do that before but you." I'd never let anyone inside me but Brian, and now they had just ruined it. Ruined me.

His fingers twisted in my hair, clenching tightly. "You still haven't. You didn't _let _them, Justin. They forced you."

I gave a silent sob into his shirt. "I know, but, why...why couldn't they just _stop?" _It was a question I had asked myself so many times. _Why _couldn't they have just fucking _stopped? _Why did they have to force me when I said no? What type of sick pleasure did they glean from making me do things against my will? "Why couldn't they just_ listen, _Brian?" I whispered hoarsely.

He didn't answer at first. Maybe he had no answer. Finally, he shook his head, combing his fingers gently through my hair. "I don't know, Sunshine. I don't know."

Maybe because it made no sense. It made no sense why they got such pleasure from my pain. It made no sense that they could just do that to someone and leave them with this without any type of remorse. One night to them changed my entire life. One night to them ruined everything that was mine.

"I hate them," I admitted quietly. I fucking hated them all. They were cruel and evil and they'd fucking destroyed my life. That was what they had done, just killed everything good in it.

"I know. So do I," he answered.

_**~Brian~**_

It tore me to pieces inside to hear him say these things. He was scared. He was hurting. I knew that, of course, but it hurt to hear it coming from his lips.

And how the fuck could he think I'd kick him out? I could barely stand to hear the way he was talking about himself. A mess...damaged goods... I couldn't stomach the thought of him feeling so worthless. He'd always been so confident, almost bordering on cocky at times...even that first night here with me, he'd pushed passed his fears to take what he wanted. Stepped up, ready to make his life whatever he wanted it to be. And now here he was...almost a completely different person than the Justin I knew...uncertain and hopeless and terrified.

Then there was the way he kept apologizing for everything he apparently thought he'd done "wrong." Apologizing for hurting _me _when he was the one who'd been in all this agony for a month. If anything, I should be apologizing to him for not realizing what was going on. For not being there. For being so fucking _stupid. _Sorry was bullshit, in this case especially...nothing I said would reverse this...but I regretted it. It went against my own trademark 'no regrets' policy, but it didn't matter. I would do this over if I could. Do it differently and save him, take this pain away from both of us.

He asked me why they couldn't have just _stopped. _The truth was, I had no answer for that. I would have given anything to have made them stop. Stop hurting him. Stop touching him. Stop_ torturing _him. _Why? _Why had they felt the need to do this? Why couldn't they fucking _see _what they were doing to him? Why didn't they care? Why did it have to be him? Why did he have to go to that party? Why didn't I stop him? Why...why was a question I couldn't answer.

Then he said he hated them.

Good. He should hate them. While I supposed it wasn't good to go around carrying that kind of anger inside, at least that meant that he held them partially responsible. They were, of course,totally accountable for every ounce of pain he was in, but he was blaming himself, too, I could tell. The more he hated them, and the less he hated himself for this, the better off he was, in my opinion.

And he wasn't alone in his hatred. I hated them, too. Fuck, _hatred _wasn't a strong enough word. I'd never wished someone dead before. But I wanted to see them dead. I wished nothing but pain in their pathetic, disgusting lives. Just the thought of them made me want to punch something. Preferably them. They would pay. One way or another, they'd all pay for thinking they were allowed to hurt him. Even if they all ended up doing jail time for this, it was nothing compared to what I would do to them. Once I was finished, they were going to be _wishing _they were back in the safety of their fucking cells.

It wouldn't be enough if I killed them, but I would settle for making them wish they were dead.

"It wasn't...just them though, Brian," Justin spoke up shakily, as though his conscience prohibited him from deflecting _all _the blame onto his attackers.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm. I had never felt so impassioned than I did then, hatred and pain keeping my mind racing and my body a swirling mass of energy, but I couldn't release this energy on him. I couldn't let it out now, because it would come out sounding as though I were angry at _him, _and he didn't need to think that. I could deal later; he needed me right now.

"I was so stupid. I shouldn't have gone to the party. I shouldn't have done drugs there, I shouldn't have took that fucking drink from Sap..."

I looked down at him in disbelief. "It doesn't fucking _matter!" _I said, a little too loudly. He cringed, and I cursed myself inwardly. _Tone it down. _"You didn't fucking _ask _them to do this to you. You didn't want it. That's why it's called rape."

He sniffled. "That's what Daphne said."

"Smart girl," I remarked acidly. Since she hadn't had it in her to tell me what was going on, I was at least thankful that Daphne seemed to know what to say, how to handle this. She wouldn't let him go on blaming himself if she could help it. Which, I wasn't sure she could, but at least she was trying. I was glad he'd had someone to trust this past month, even if it wasn't me.

"It still feels like...it's partly my fault. For...not stopping it, you know?" he confessed, and I felt a flood of his hot tears pooling on my neck.

"It's not," I assured him. "Justin...it's not. Look even if...even if you hadn't drank or done drugs...if they'd _really _wanted to do it, they would've done it regardless. The drugs just made it easier."

"But if I hadn't gone in the first place...you _warned _me..."

"Exactly," I said bitterly. "I...I fucking warned you. I knew it was dangerous, and I...I didn't stop it." I closed my eyes against the glassy sheen of tears that had welled up inside them. All of this....all of this pain he was in...I could have prevented it. I could have stopped it all. I had told him over and over that what he was doing was reckless and stupid and that Sap was no good, and yet I did nothing to stop any of it. Just sat back and let it all happen. I played just as big a part as he did in all of this. How could I fucking tell him that he could get hurt, and then sit back and let him? Did I think he could handle it? Did I believe I could step in and stop it if I needed to? What the hell had been going through my head to let this fucking happen to him? Because ultimately, that was the simple truth...they may have been the ones to hurt him, but I let them. I stood by and let them do this to him. I let Justin get raped.

"It wasn't _you," _he moaned, and I was surprised at the intensity in his voice. "God, Brian, it wasn't _you..."_

But it was. Maybe he didn't see that, or maybe he did and just didn't want me to feel guilty, but it _was_ me. Maybe not _all _me, but it was partly.

How could I fucking let this _happen?_

It was quiet for a while, with both of us lost inside our heads. I wondered if I should ask him for...for the details, invite him to talk. I didn't want to hear them, but at the same time, I knew he might need to tell me. It was selfish not to let him talk just because I didn't want to hear it. And I wouldn't tell him to forget this and put it behind him. This was here, in his life now, in both our lives, and as much as I would like to, I couldn't put it out of my mind, so I wouldn't tell him to try to do the same. And a part of me, I think, needed to know what he went through. Needed to understand exactly how much he suffered. Exactly how much pain I owed those sad, sorry fuckers who had hurt him.

"Justin? Do you...." I tried. Another good thing, I supposed, about Daphne knowing...she was good at talking. Unlike me. I hoped he had been able to talk to her, anyway, if he had needed to. "What...happened, exactly? Do you...you can tell me." I felt him tense against my body. As embarrassingly feeble an attempt as it was, I knew he saw it for the true offering it was meant to be. An invitation to say whatever he needed to. Whatever he wanted, I was here. For once, I would do the right thing.

"Do I have to talk about it?" he asked.

"No," I answered, more than a little relieved myself. "You don't have to." I was having a hard enough time keeping the image out of my head, like a video on replay, again and again and again. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to know all they'd done. I didn't want to know what he'd felt, what he'd said to them, what _they'd _said to him, how scared he must have been, how much it had hurt, physically and otherwise...I didn't want to think of him in that situation at all.

"I'm cold," he said randomly after a few more silent moments.

"Lets get under the duvet," I suggested. We sat up and pulled the covers back, and he slipped under them.

"I'll be right back," I promised. I could feel his eyes on me as I left him in the bedroom and wandered down into the kitchen, deciding on making him some hot tea. I'd rarely had anything but water and alcohol in the loft before Justin, but he had mentioned once when he was sick that warm tea always made his throat feel better, so I'd picked up a box for him then. I was sure we still had a few teabags left around here somewhere; I rummaged in the cabinets before locating what I was searching for, and began making it for him.

Deciding to let the tea heat up on the stove, I went back up to the bedroom to find him sleeping soundly, at least for the moment. I guess I knew where he went in his head during his nightmares and panic attacks now. He was there, every time, every night. Back at that party with them. I hated that he couldn't even seem to get peace, even in sleep. Couldn't he have any fucking refuge from this?

Being careful not to wake him, I pulled back the duvet on my side and slid in beside him. I wanted to touch him, hold him, kiss him until he was better, but I knew it wouldn't help. I couldn't make him better that way. I couldn't heal this wound by fucking him, like before. What if I never could make him better? What if I gave him everything in the world, and it still wasn't enough to heal him? What if this was just too much pain for him to come back from?

I laid and watched him sleep for a while, curled under the duvet, looking so fucking innocent, it hurt. How could anyone do this to him? How could they _rape _him? What had he ever done? He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve this pain. He didn't deserve their cruelty. He deserved to be able to be Sunshine again. He deserved happiness. Life was unfair, but..._this? _This was too far. Too much. Life was just...twisted if this was justice.

It was warm and comfortable lying there beside him, and think I must have drifted off at some point as well. His muffled screams seemed to reach me from far away, and I opened my eyes to find him in the middle of another nightmare, twisting in the sheets and yelling and crying in his sleep.

"Justin," I said loudly, shaking his shoulder, instantly alert. "Justin, wake up!"

"No," he muttered, trying to push me off. I was used to it. He had done this during nearly every nightmare he'd had since he was bashed, so it was nothing new. Only this time, it wasn't some asshole with a bat he was trying to fight off.

I knocked his hands aside, and shook him again. "Justin, get up. It's a dream. _Wake up!" _

"Stop," he pleaded with me. Them. Right now, they were one and the same to him.

"JUSTIN!"

He awoke with a start and a little scream. I waited for him to recognize his surroundings and turn to me before speaking.

"You okay?" I asked gently. He was about to cry, and my immediate instinct was to take him into my arms. However, even though I'd been doing it nearly every night for the last several weeks, something stopped me. I was a little afraid. Would he want to be touched? I didn't want to freak him out.

"Brian," he whispered, tears already beginning to fall. Understanding at once, I wrapped him in my arms, relieved. He still wanted to be touched, to be held. I could still do _something_ for him, however small.

"Shh..." I whispered, stroking his hair as he cried into my shoulder. "You're with me now. They're gone. They can't hurt you," I whispered senselessly. I wasn't sure why I was saying it; I knew it wasn't true. They _were _hurting him. Even now, they were still torturing him. Things like this...weren't just _over. _They lasted beyond the time they were actually occurring, haunted you far longer than the event itself lasted.

"Maybe you should see a therapist again," I suggested after a moment. I felt his sharp intake of breath more than I heard it.

"I don't want to."

"I know. But maybe you should. You can't...you can't do this on your own, Justin." I closed my eyes.

"I thought you were letting me stay?" he asked, his voice rising in panic.

"I am," I said quickly. "But...I'm not a therapist. I don't...know how to..." I didn't know how to help. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to fix him and make him better. I was just as lost with this as he was.

"Just be here," he whispered, hugging me tighter. "Just stay."

Of course I would stay; I couldn't even imagine leaving him on his own with this. Of course I would hold him when he woke up from nightmares, and of course I would protect him and tell him it wasn't his fault make him feel as safe as I could. I had done it before, hadn't I? But what if it wasn't enough this time? What if _I_ wasn't enough? I hadn't been enough to save him. Not with Hobbes, not with this...I had already failed him twice. I'd failed to protect him, watch out for him. The most important thing he'd ever trusted me with, and I'd failed him so completely.

We stayed like that for at least a half an hour. I never wanted to let him go, just wanted to keep him here and safe and mine, as though if I held him long enough, gave him something safe to cling to, it would erase that night and everything with it.

"Justin..." I said finally, clearing my throat awkwardly. This was necessary. Hard, for both of us, but necessary. "I...don't want to have to bring this up, but...have you been to a doctor?"

He sniffed, burrowing his face into my neck. "No."

I sighed. "Do you have any...any injuries?"

He squeezed me so tightly that it almost began to constrict my breathing. "They're mostly better now. You can hardly see anything."

I nodded absently, ignoring the pang at the knowledge that he'd indeed _had_ injuries, as it was quickly being overtaken by a new fear rising from the pit of my stomach. "And...what about inside? Internal injuries, diseases..." There were any number of other ways they could have hurt him. As though the emotional trauma of it all wasn't enough.

"I got tested. The day after," he admitted. I felt a few more tears fall, hot and wet, onto my neck. He answered the question before I could ask it, "The results came back fine. Daphne took me back for my second round of tests last week...I still have about five months before I can be sure I'm negative. But I should get my new results back any day."

I nodded again, taking in the new information. Five months. Five months before we could be sure he was okay. The last tests were fine...that was a good sign, right? Nothing had showed up so far._ Please let him be okay... _I didn't want to think about any other possibility. And I would try my hardest not to, unless it became necessary.

I was glad that Daphne had been there. As furious as I was that she hadn't told me about any of this, I appreciated her taking care of him. At least he hadn't been alone. "Daphne knows," I said quietly. It wasn't a question.

He shook his head, confirming what I already knew. "I'm..."

"Don't say sorry."

He sniffed instead. "Did...did she tell you? About me, I mean?"

"No. She didn't." No, she had stayed quiet, as I was sure he'd asked her to do. He didn't have to worry about her betraying him; she was as loyal a friend to him as Mikey was to me. In other words, almost to a fault, at times.

"Oh," he said quietly. He was quiet for a moment. "I knew it."

"Knew what?"

He sighed. "I knew...that he would tell you," he explained, sounding just a little bitter.

"You knew...what?" Something wasn't quite adding up. I knew _he _would tell you? Who else had he told? Surely he wasn't talking about Ted and Emmett...that didn't make sense...

"I knew Michael would tell you. It was only a matter of time," he said resignedly.

For the second time that day, I had the highly unpleasant sensation of being punched in the gut. _"Michael?" _I repeated, my heart thundering violently in my ears. _"Michael_ knows?"

Michael. _Michael. _He knew? He knew and he hadn't even...how could he not have _told _me?

And why the fuck would Justin have told _him, _of all people, anyway? It wasn't as though they were particularly close. They'd developed a comfortable sort of camaraderie, especially over the last few months, but for him to trust Michael with the knowledge of what had happened when he hadn't even told _me..._

A look of horrified realization was spreading across Justin's face. "You mean, he didn't...he didn't tell you?" He read the answer on my face. "Then how did you find out?" I'd become so immersed in trying to comfort him, trying to process this, so wrapped up in the pain and the new lack of secrecy...that I hadn't even gotten around to explaining about the encounter with Ted and Emmett or about the situation surrounding his attacker. Justin, evidently, had thus far been under the impression that one of his confidants had betrayed him.

"When did you tell Michael?" I demanded, ignoring his question.

"Don't be mad," he pleaded. "Please, it was just..."

"I'm not mad," I lied. I was already on overload, and this piece of news did not help. I wasn't mad at Justin...I was just...I don't know. Not hurt. I wasn't hurt, just...surprised. It just didn't make sense to me. Why him? Why Michael? Why not me? He was afraid I would kick him out, but he could tell Michael, no problem? And why the _fuck _hadn't Michael told me any of this himself? Here I was, worried out of my fucking _mind, _and he knew exactly what was wrong and didn't tell me a damn thing.

"I didn't even mean to. It wasn't like I planned it, it was just...impulsive," Justin explained. I didn't want his explanation. He didn't owe me one. Why should I care that he told Michael and not me? Okay, so maybe I did care. But I shouldn't. He'd also told Daphne, though somehow it didn't feel quite the same. But I couldn't be mad at Justin. Not now. I was surprised, sure, but...there was nothing saying he had to tell me everything.

By this point, I wasn't even buying my own bullshit.

"_When?" _I repeated. "When did you tell him?"

He hesitated. "That...that day in the comic shop. When I called you to come pick me up," he confessed.

Michael had known _that_ long? Granted, it was only a week, but a week feels like a fucking eternity when something's seriously wrong and the answer is right in front of you and you just can't _catch_ it... All this time he'd had to tell me...fuck, I'd _asked _him if Justin had said anything to him...he'd lied to me...

"Don't be mad at him, Brian. I_ asked_ him not to tell anyone." I didn't care for the justification. It was just an excuse on Michael's behalf. He should not have kept this from me. Fuck any promises he made, any sense of _loyalty..._Justin was hurting and Michael had known_ why, _and not told me, despite knowing full well how desperate I was to find out what was wrong with him. Daphne was one thing. Michael was quite another. I was beginning to get the notion that everyone in the fucking world knew about this but me. Why the fuck was everyone so intent on keeping me in the dark? Justin, Daphne, _Michael..._

"Does anyone else know?" I asked, once again struggling to keep my voice calm. I would be having a few words with my supposed best friend, but for now, I didn't need to stress Justin out.

"No one," he answered.

It was quiet for a long time, my thoughts everywhere at once. I tried my best to keep them away from the most unpleasant topics...thoughts of Justin, helpless and in pain...thoughts of Michael, keeping from me the most important secret he'd ever held in his hands...and tried to focus on thoughts of what to do next. What needed to be done.

"Have you thought about...going to the police?" I asked him cautiously. "Or did you already?" I added. I realized with a pang that I had no idea what had occurred in his life within the last month that he didn't tell me about. I hadn't known if he'd been to a doctor, I didn't know if he'd talked to the police...I didn't know anything. All this time he was hurting, and I was nowhere to be found. _I _should have been the one taking him to the clinic. _I _should have been there to force him to see a doctor. I should have been there from the beginning.

"I can't," he said. "I can't tell them. They won't care anyway."

I sighed. "Listen, Justin...Ted and Emmett told me that Sapperstein got arrested," I told him cautiously, watching to see how he'd react. "That's...that's how I found out. One of the other dancers apparently went to one of those parties, and..."

He sat up suddenly. "It happened to someone else?"

I nodded, and pulled him gently back down on top of me. His shoulders were tense, and his hand twisted itself in my shirt.

"They pressed charges. If someone else came forward...there's a better chance that Sap will be..."

"I can't, Brian," he said firmly. "I just...want to forget it all. I'd have to give a statement and everything, go to court...I don't want to do any of that, I can't..."

"Shh, okay," I whispered. He was starting to get worked up again. "You don't have to." While we were on the topic, I had a question for him, one I really did not want to hear the answer to.

Yet I had to ask. "Justin...there's...well, a rumor, that Sapperstein named his friends that were...involved. I don't know if it's true. How many...do you know how many there were? That night?" I closed my eyes, as though I could block out all the pain just by shutting out the light of the room.

"I don't remember," he confessed. "I was all drugged up...and I think they put something in my drink...I don't remember everything."

My heart sank at his answer. They'd drugged him, too? I knew he'd said _he'd _done drugs...but for them to slip him something without his knowledge was even worse. "You do remember. Or at least, you remember enough. You just don't want to tell me."

"You don't want to know," he countered. Well, he was right. I didn't want to know. I _had _to know.

"Just tell me," I implored him. "I need to...just tell me, Justin."

"I thought I didn't have to talk about it?" he said sharply. I sighed. I had said that.

"You're not going to get in trouble, are you?" he asked, after one of our longest silences yet. "For skipping work?"

"It's fine. They can manage without me for a little while. This is more important." I said, wondering exactly where the random question had come from. "I was thinking I'd take off tomorrow, too. And maybe you should stay home from school. I think...we just need a day to—"

"I can't," he interrupted me. "I...I have to go to school."

"Justin, I think you can afford to skip one day," I said slowly. "We need to...we need to deal with this."

"No, Brian..." he took a deep breath, and I got the impression he was preparing himself for a confession of some sort. What else had been going on that I wasn't aware of? "I'm already on thin ice there."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean...me and Daphne went up to PIFA one day a few weeks ago, and we got them to let me work at home...all except for one class. I only have to go to there two days a week, but I really _have _to go. I can't miss my days."

"So that's why you have so much school work," I said, more to myself than him.

"Yeah. And right now, my professors aren't really happy with the work I've been turning in. Even my _art _is messed up, Brian," he moaned, dangerously close to crying again. I wondered if it was possible to just run out of tears. If it was, I thought he must be getting very near that point by now. "I can't concentrate...and when I can, all I get is all this dark shit..."

"That's how you let this out," I told him. "The professors can go fuck themselves. If darker pieces are what you need to make, then do it. It's therapy through art."

"But, Brian...I can't...I can't draw like I want. I can't draw _you. _I've tried, but...I just can't. And...and what I do draw...it scares me," he admitted, his voice shrinking.

It scared me, too. What I had seen of his sketches chilled me to the bone, though I doubted it was for the same reasons it scared him. It terrified me to know that he was seeing these things. That this was what was going through his head. Especially that one with all of those men, standing around and fucking _leering..._his attackers...his rapists...all haunting his thoughts. He wasn't free from them, and until he was, he was going to keep clinging to this pain he was carrying around. That was what scared me.

"I wish I could draw you like I used to," he said softly.

"You will. Just...not right now. Someday."

"I just want to get better," he said, his voice shaking. "This hurts, Brian. I just...want to wake up and have it be gone."

"I know." I felt the same way. I wished I could just close my eyes and reawaken and have all this be some horrible nightmare that I could forget. I'd open my eyes and roll over, and he'd be there, happy and smiling his Sunshine smile, and then I'd fuck him just to reassure myself that all was well. I'd never have to think about this again. I'd never have to see him cry over this pain running too deep for me to fix. I'd never have to think about Justin helpless and hurting or about Sap's twisted face or about Michael lying to me or nightmares or drawings or panic attacks...

"Why don't you try and get some sleep?" I suggested.

"I'll have nightmares."

I wrapped my hand around his fingers, still fisted in my shirt, and just held them. "I'll be here."

As it turned out, he only made it another hour before the demons that haunted his sleep invaded his mind again, but as promised, I pulled him free, loosening the grip of his fear with words of comfort and my arms around him and kisses to his forehead. I had failed to protect him twice before, but maybe there was still a chance I could save him. I was becoming increasingly aware that I was just, if not more, afraid of losing him as he was of losing me.

It was like he was standing on the edge of a building. On one side was me...hand reaching out, begging him to take it...pulling him from the danger and pain and confusion that was his life right now. On the other side...he was lost. If he moved even an inch the wrong way, he'd fall and be gone, into an abyss he couldn't climb back out of. I had to pull him back. I hadn't prevented him from climbing up on the ledge in the first place, but I could bring him back from it, right?

I had to save him, because losing him wasn't an option.


	10. Rage

**~Brian~**

It had taken some convincing from him, but I'd finally agreed to let Justin go to school for his class day that he'd insisted he couldn't miss. He would only be gone a few hours, and I wanted to be there to drop him off and pick him up. I called Cynthia and told her I was taking the day off, deflecting every one of her prying questions, and dropped Justin off at school, waiting until I saw him disappear inside the building before pulling out of the parking lot.

For the first time since speaking to Ted and Emmett the previous day at the diner, I sat and really thought. Everything had just been happening so fast and so furiously that I hadn't had time to catch a breath. Now, though, with the loft quiet and empty, I had the opportunity to think.

Justin needed help. More help than I could give him. I had no idea where to even begin. I spent some time online, looking up information on rape survivors. There were web sites, support groups, suggestions and personal stories...though nothing particularly helpful. Information about STD's, medical examinations, pressing charges, encouraging friends and family members of the victim to be supportive... Justin had already gotten tested, he'd said his injuries were mostly healed, and he refused to go the police. He knew I was here—as was Daphne, it seemed—and he knew that we'd be here for him through this...what more could we do?

I really wanted him to at least consider therapy, but he'd shot me down almost before the suggestion had fully formed on my lips. I understood that he didn't want to talk...I wouldn't, if it were me...but he couldn't go on like this, and I didn't know how to help him on my own. I wondered if it might help if he talked about it, even to me or Daphne or just _someone..._but he refused to say much more beyond how torn up he was inside. He'd mentioned drugs, a possibly altered drink...but not much past that. I could only continue to prompt him to talk, and hope he'd confide in me when he was ready. _Fuck, _I just wished he'd see a therapist...I was so over my head here, and he needed someone who could help him for real.

Something else that was hovering on the edge of my consciousness was this whole situation with Michael. We needed to talk, that much was certain, but I didn't want to do it in his shop during the day and I didn't want to leave Justin here alone quite yet. I'd have to go back to work eventually, but I could afford a few days off. He needed me right now, and frankly I needed to be with him, too. I wouldn't be able to concentrate properly at work, thinking about him here, alone and afraid and in pain.

I just...didn't know what to do about any of this. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so lost. I couldn't erase what happened, I couldn't magically heal him, I couldn't take away his pain...so what could I do?

I was early for picking him up from class. I sat in the jeep for a few minutes, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel until his class let out, then went to meet him at the set of double doors I'd told him to wait by. They were close to his class, and this way he didn't have to walk too far alone. He was hunched against the outside wall when I arrived, and gave a weak, relieved smile when he saw me approaching. I took his hand and led him back to the jeep, trying to cut a path through the throng of people so that he didn't have to touch any of them. He gave a little sigh when he finally climbed into the passenger seat, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"You okay?" I asked.

He nodded, not opening his eyes. "Fine...can we just go home?"

In answer to his question, I merely turned the key in the ignition, bringing the jeep to life, and navigated my way out of the parking lot. We drove in silence for a while. I could see his reflection in the passenger side window, watching the trees and roads and cars all pass by in a blur.

"So, how was class?" I asked, trying to sound casual. It was harder than I thought...nothing about this was normal. It was all so fucked up, and my attempt at the usual conversation was as transparent as the glass he was staring out of.

He shrugged. "My professor didn't like my last piece," he said sullenly.

"Why not?"

"Do you want the art-speak version, or the English version?" he asked wearily.

I almost smiled. I recalled, as though from a past life, one without all this new pain in it—the way he would always start in on some rant about a random piece of art, using terms and pulling out references I didn't understand, always laughing when I told him to repeat it again in a language a "normal American" could understand.

"English," I told him wryly.

He sighed. "He said it was a mess. And he was right...it was all over the place. I haven't been able to concentrate."

"I'm sure he'll like your next one." The last thing Justin needed to worry about was art and school and his idiotic professors, and yet that was exactly what he was doing, thanks to those assholes. I was, naturally, all for honesty and being constructively critical, but now, when he was so obviously broken already, couldn't they give him a break? This...his art...it was the only way he knew how to express himself right now...and if he was drawing something other than Sap and his attackers...couldn't they just let him have this without making him feel worse?

"Maybe," he said, though he didn't sound convinced. "I just...I can't help what I paint, or draw...this—whatever it is—these pieces...they're all that come out," he said sadly. "And now my fucking professors are on my back because every time it's the same thing...it's always dark and it's nothing like what I used to be able to do...and I just fucking can't do it like I...like before..."

"Shh," I consoled him. I timidly reached over to lay a hand on his knee. He jumped, and I was about to pull my hand away, when he grasped onto it, holding it in place. I drove one handed the whole way home.

"You hungry? I'll order something," I offered as I slid the loft door shut behind us. He dropped his backpack on the floor, heading immediately for the bedroom.

"I'm fine. You go ahead, get whatever you want." I frowned as he pulled open the closet door and began rifling through the shirts hanging up.

"Why don't you come sit with me, then?" I asked, gesturing at the couch.

He looked hesitant, now pulling a pair of pants from the drawer. "I think I'm just going to take a shower."

"Come sit with me," I repeated gently. He seemed to deliberate a moment longer, then reluctantly came down to take a seat at the very edge of the couch. Taking the hint, I sat down at the other end.

"I've been doing some thinking," I began. He was immediately on the alert; his eyes widened and his shoulders tensed up even more.

"About...about what?"

I knew he wouldn't like this, but I had to try. "Look, I know you said you didn't want to, but I think you need to get some help, Justin. Professional help," I said, bracing myself for his reaction.

"I—told you, Brian...I don't want to see a shrink," he said simply, frowning.

"I know you don't, but...I think it'll help. I think it'll help a lot," I said honestly. He lowered his head, staring at the floor. I sighed. "Justin..."

"You don't want to help me," he interrupted quietly.

"What?" I asked, confused as to how he had come to that conclusion, when, in fact, the exact opposite was true.

"You changed your mind. You don't...you don't want me," he mumbled.

I sighed again wearily. Why did he interpret everything I said to mean I didn't want him?

Of course, I knew the answer to that already. I may not be a shrink, but I could, despite what most people would probably say, understand the basics of the human mind. He felt worthless. He was still harboring some of that self contempt, and as long as that lasted—as long as he hated himself—he'd remain almost neurotically paranoid, always afraid that someone else would see what he saw in himself.

"That's not it," I reassured him firmly. "Justin, listen to me...are you listening?"

"I'm listening." His voice was small and hurt and I barely heard it, but it was an answer.

I took a deep breath. I had to explain this to him, it seemed. Make sure he knew it was me, not him. I couldn't fix this on my own, and he desperately needed some real help. "You were raped, okay? By...fuck knows how many guys. I don't, uh...fuck...I don't what they did, exactly, but...Justin, you're hurting. You've been this way for the past month, and you're obviously not getting any better. You need to start dealing with this. And as much as I wish I could...I don't know how to help you with this. So, I think we need to find someone who does."

"You don't get it," he accused softly, tears already threatening to fall. I wished I could just stop the tears, just this once...I hated seeing him cry. "You don't _fucking_ get it, Brian..."

"Justin, you need to start dealing with this, okay? You need to start...healing, and..."

"I know how shrinks, are, Brian! I've been there before!" he cried. "They all just want to get inside my head..."

"Maybe that's not a bad thing. You need to talk about this...and if not to me, then you need to talk to someone who can help you..."

"I don't _want _to fucking talk!" he yelled. "And where do you get off telling me that I need to, anyway? When have you _ever _fucking talked about how you felt?!"

He had an unfortunate point. If I had been in his position, I wouldn't want to see a shrink either. "We're not talking about me. You...can't keep living like this, Justin. You need help," I said sternly. "I'll get the numbers of some therapists, okay? You can pick."

"I'm not going!" he insisted, standing up. I mirrored his actions, getting to my feet; I took a step toward him, intending on a consoling hug, but he took a step back. "Don't!"

"Justin, I'm just trying to help you," I said gently. "I'm just...trying to do what's best, here."

"You don't know _anything, _Brian!" he said hotly. "Kick me out if you don't want me here...but I'm _not _going to a shrink!"

"Justin, don't..._damn it!" _I yelled as he took off for the bathroom, his clean clothes still folded in his arms. I hadn't really prepared for that reaction...I knew he'd be upset, knew there'd most likely be some arguing...but I also thought that he might eventually listen to reason, especially when it would most likely benefit him. But he didn't seem to want that kind of help. He wanted to feel better, stop hurting...but he didn't want to take a step towards healing. He was afraid, he was suffering, and he wasn't listening to logic right now. How was I supposed to help him if he didn't want help? If he was too afraid to take the first step?

I'd only had a few instances in my life—at least as an adult—where it literally felt like everything was falling apart, out of my hands, beyond my control. Where I didn't know how to fix what was wrong, didn't know how to deal with it, get past it...where there just didn't seem to be a light at the end of the long, winding tunnel ahead of me.

This was one of those times.

**~Justin-A Few Days Later~**

I never imagined he'd be so great with me. He was acting...sweet. Gentle. Caring. And so un-Brian-like.

I had been sure he'd yell at me, lecture me, tell me how stupid I was for letting this happen, and then I'd be out the door. I was mad at myself. I was disgusted by myself, and I couldn't see how anyone else wouldn't be, especially him. But it wasn't like that at all.

Take, for example, a few nights after he'd found out my secret. I was sitting by the window, which had become one of my favorite places in the loft, sketch pad in hand, concentrating with everything I had. The curve of Brian's shoulders giving way to his arms...his perfectly sculpted chest that I always snuggled into...the little trail of hairs leading down from below his navel, his hips, he was so beautiful...

But I couldn't. I couldn't finish. Why couldn't I just make myself draw him? He'd always been my favorite subject, and now I couldn't sketch him. Art had been...it had always been something that was _mine. _Ever since I was a kid, it had been the one thing I could count on, the one thing I knew I could always fall back into. A fight with Daphne, or my parents, being picked on in school...whatever life threw at me, I had my art, and I'd always been sure that nothing could take it away from me.

Then I had gotten bashed, and lost control over my hand for what felt like forever. If I couldn't draw...what was I? It felt like an essential piece of me was missing. It hadn't lasted...I wasn't completely healed from that attack, but I could draw now. Things weren't the same, and never would be, but they were good enough. Life would go on if I had my art. If I had that bit of me back.

Then _this _had happened. I'd been attacked a second time, I'd been raped, and this time it wasn't a physical disability holding me back. It was something _inside. _Mental, emotional...where my body had held me captive before, this time it was my mind. It made me feel constricted, not being able to do what I wanted. Not being able to express myself the way I loved best.

I'd been staring at my half finished drawing for several minutes when Brian entered the room and saw me sitting by the window, almost in a trance. He approached me carefully, looking over my shoulder at the drawing I didn't bother to hide.

"It's good," he said kindly.

I shook my head. "It's not finished."

"So finish it."

I didn't answer. His hand brushed my shoulder, massaging it gently. "You will eventually. It'll come back to you."

Suddenly, I couldn't stand the feeling of his hand on my shoulder, touching any part of me. It made me feel suffocated. Trapped. I felt trapped in this body, trapped in this life...and I was sick of waiting for it to get better, because it wasn't.

"It WON'T!" I yelled, standing up and hurling the sketch pad across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor. I wanted to tear it, shred it to pieces. All the drawings of Sap, all the ones I couldn't finish of Brian...I wanted to ruin them, as though by tearing the paper I was tearing them all out of my life. Ridding myself of this pain. "It won't come back! I'm just _stuck _like this, Brian! They took it, and it's _not_ fucking coming back!"

He stood and watched, not saying a word, which irritated me just as much as it relieved me. Couldn't he say anything? Couldn't he make this better? Or was he realizing, for maybe the first time since the party, that snapping me out of this, making me whole again...was hopeless? Was he reconsidering his decision to let me stay?

Having had enough of feeling so out in the open, I made to stomp off to the bathroom to be alone for a while, but his softly spoken words made me halt in my tracks.

"Come here," he said quietly.

"Why should I?" I snapped. It wasn't fair to treat him like this, I knew, but...I was just so fucking _angry..._but it was at myself and not him, and I knew he didn't deserve to be yelled at like this.

"Because I asked you to," he said, as though he thought that were reason enough. "You don't have to talk to me, just...stay out here. You can't hide from everything, Justin," he added.

"_Watch_ me!" I said icily, and fled into the bathroom anyway. After a few moments, he came knocking on the door, asking me just to say something, anything. A little confused by the odd request, I'd demanded to know what he wanted, but instead of answering, I just heard his footsteps retreat from the door, and I supposed it was just Brian's way of making sure I was okay without making me feel smothered. Even still...he hadn't hesitated to take both our razors out of the bathroom and put them in a dresser drawer. I knew where they were, he hadn't bothered to hide them from me, and I didn't think that was the point, anyway. He just wanted to make sure I had no way to impulsively hurt myself during one of my self-imposed lock-downs. Whatever.

A little while later, I emerged from the bathroom to find him watching TV in the living room. I walked up to him cautiously, not sure what his reaction would be. He should be angry. He was just trying to help me...he'd been nothing but wonderful with me since he'd found out what happened, and I repaid him by screaming at him.

"Brian?" I asked tentatively. He clicked off the TV at once, giving me his full attention. Waiting for him to protest, I sat down on the other end of the couch and just stared at the blank TV. When I continued to not say anything, he turned it back on, and after a while, I realized that he wasn't mad, and edged my way down the couch toward him. He let me lean against him, and put his arm around me.

It had meant more than I could say that he was doing this. Letting me have my outbursts, have my space...and then still being right there when I needed him. How did he always seem to know exactly what I needed?

Or at least, it seemed that way.

The day Brian had found out, as well as the day after, he'd suggested I return to therapy. I had refused.

I didn't want to go to therapy. I had talked to Daphne about what had happened to me, though never in great detail...and I hadn't even told Michael who had done it. No one knew. No one except for me, and all those men at the party. Not even Brian knew. They didn't know the details, they didn't know the extent of the pain constantly with me, weighing me down...and I planned to keep it that way. If I couldn't even talk to the people I cared about most in the world, how was I supposed to talk to a complete stranger? Trying to get inside my head...psychoanalyzing everything...I didn't want that. I remembered therapy after I was bashed, and I had hated it. If I was going to talk, it would be on my own terms, not someone else's, and not to some shrink. This was my head, my thoughts, my pain...I wasn't about to let some stranger with a degree have full access to it all.

Brian had barely left the house since finding out about...it. He'd taken off work for the entire week, he hadn't gone out to Woody's or anything...he was just here with me, constantly. I'd insisted that he get out, go back to work, go _somewhere _that wasn't here with me and _this, _but he still hadn't set foot outside the loft except to give me a ride to and from class that one day, and once to the video store. I was convinced it couldn't be good for him, staying shut up in here with me like this. Maybe before, it wouldn't have been so bad, as we would most likely have spent every waking moment we had fucking our brains out...but with me like this, all damaged and helpless and fucked up, he needed to get out and away from this. From me. Just because my life was a mess, it didn't mean I had to drag him down, too.

"Hey, Brian?" I asked quietly one evening, as we watched a movie together on the couch. We'd been spending nearly every night like this since he had found out; He was even suffering through all the cheesy romantic comedies I liked...crazy antics, true love, happy endings and all the shit he hated...just for me.

"Hmm?" he asked, looking down at me. I was curled against his side, his arm around me, where I always felt just a little more secure. He'd been a little hesitant to do this kind of thing at first, but I'd quickly assured him that it was okay, that I even wanted it. Similarly, he'd also started wearing his boxers to bed, despite all the weeks of me having dealt with him sleeping naked beside me. I'd told him he didn't have to do it, but every night when he curled up behind me, there were now two layers of clothing, mine and his, separating our skin.

Now that most of my bruises had faded, there was no real reason for me to continue wearing clothes to bed, except that they made me feel, like Brian's arms, just a bit more secure. I particularly liked wearing Brian's shirts...they were always so much bigger and they were comfortable and warm, just like him. I'd been a little worried that he'd be mad when he came out of the bathroom one night to see that I'd paired one of his old shirts with my sweat pants, but he'd just offered me the smallest of smiles and climbed into bed next to me. He'd laid spooned behind me for a while, fiddling with one of the buttons on the shirt, not trying to undo it, just twiddling it between his fingers. I'd fallen asleep with the sensation of being completely surrounded by Brian, and I hadn't had a nightmare all night.

"I was thinking, um..." I began, not looking at him. "I think I'll go over to Daphne's tomorrow. I haven't seen her in a while, not since...well, I just thought I'd stop by and hang out with her. It's a weekend, so she won't have class or anything, and she invited me over yesterday...you think you could maybe give me a ride?"

Once upon a time, this last question would have been met with a smirk and some deviant remark, but now, he just nodded. "Yeah, 'course. What time do you think you'll be home? Do you want me to get dinner?"

"Um...no, you get whatever. I'll eat there."

"Will you?"

I caught the crisp note in his voice, and was sure that, if I looked, that one eyebrow would have crept halfway up his forehead. "Yes, Brian. I'll eat. I promise."

He'd been on my case even more than usual about my lack of an appetite, something that had been driving me crazy for the last several days. So I had a slight lack of desire for food...why couldn't he just accept that and let it go? Instead, he had to get in all these irritable little remarks, to the point where I'd snapped at him for sounding like an overbearing nutritionist. It wasn't like I was starving myself...I ate enough. It may be true that I had lost a few pounds in recent weeks, but I could take care of myself. I didn't need him playing doctor and telling me when and what to eat.

"Fine. I'll pick you up whenever...call me when you're ready to come home."

I nodded, snuggling closer against him, and his lips brushed the top of my forehead. Good. He wasn't mad at me. And hopefully he'd take tomorrow as an opportunity to get out. Fuck knows he deserved it. It had been less than a week that he'd been shut up in here with me, but for Brian Kinney, that was nothing short of a lifetime.

We'd fallen asleep on the couch that night, moving to the bed only when I woke us up with my nightmare at around four in the morning. A few hours later, we were up again, with Brian in the shower while I attempted the beginnings of my new art project I'd been assigned. We lounged around the loft for a few hours, I'd forced down a little breakfast to appease Brian, and called Daphne at around eleven. Her offer for me to come over apparently still stood, and by noon I was on my way.

I didn't want Brian anywhere near Daphne for a while if I could help it, in case he was harboring any resentment over the fact that she had known my secret all those weeks and not mentioned anything to him, so I asked him just to drop me off in front of the building and let me go up to her apartment alone. He kissed me goodbye on the cheek, telling me to call him if and when I needed him, and waited until I disappeared between the doors of the building before leaving. There weren't a whole lot of people around, and I made it up to Daphne's place okay.

"So...how's Brian been?" she asked as we sat and watched some old video together on the floor. Neither of us was paying much attention to it, but it was a lot less awkward than sitting there with no distractions from each other while talking about already uncomfortable topics.

"He's been...great. I mean I thought he'd yell, or kick me out, or..._something, _but...he's been really sweet, actually," I told her. "He took off work this week, he hasn't been out at all...we've just been sitting at home watching movies and stuff."

The distress in my tone apparently did not go unnoticed. "You don't sound too happy about that," she observed.

I sighed. "I just—don't want him to feel like he has to babysit me, you know?" I admitted. "It has to be driving him crazy...and what if he gets tired of always having to take care of me? What if he decides he wants me out?"

"Are you still on that?" Daphne demanded, sounding a little annoyed. "Justin...Brian's not the kind of guy who does this kind of thing for just anyone. He _cares _about you. A lot. And if he's doing all this to try and help you, it has to be because he wants to."

I shrugged. How could I believe that? Of course Brian didn't _want _to do this...who would? Maybe...he felt guilty. Like after I was bashed. Maybe this was just his way of assuaging his own conscience because he blamed himself for this, too.

Daphne took a deep, frustrated breath, and let it out between her teeth. "Justin, do you think it didn't fucking hurt when you came to my house that night and told me what happened to you?"

Tearing my eyes away from the screen I wasn't even watching, my attention closed in quickly and exclusively on her. "I..."

"It did," she said bitingly. "But I let you in, and I let you stay, didn't I?"

"I...yeah, but, Daph..." That was different. She was Daphne, and he was Brian. She was my best friend, and he...just didn't do these kinds of things for no reason.

"And this is hurting Brian," she said. "But not for the reasons you think. Look, you didn't see him when he came over here looking for you that day."

I sat up a little. "What? He came looking for me?"

"Yeah, I guess it was the day he found out. About a week ago. He was banging on my door. I've never seen him like that...he looked ready to kill." I listened as she recounted to me what he'd said, the anger he'd radiated, the desperation in his voice...Brian had been that way because of _me?_ Because he'd found out I'd been hurt? But he'd seemed so calm and together...did he really care that much?

"I didn't know," I said quietly, picking absently at her carpet.

"I told you, Justin. He's your boyfriend, whether he wants to admit it or not. And he cares about you."

I nodded, allowing a watery smile to tug at my lips. I opened my mouth to speak, but froze as the soft melody of my ring tone cut me off. "Hang on, that's my phone." Reaching across the couch cushion behind me for my cell, I flipped it open and answered it.

"Hello? Yes, this is him. Oh, you have? Can you tell—I...I do? I'm...so, what does that mean? So, I...yes, I can. Yes...okay...thanks."

I hung up the phone, turning to Daphne, who was staring at me questioningly. "Justin?"

I gripped the phone tightly in my hand. "That was the clinic...they, uh...got my test results back."

**~Brian~**

I had a sneaking suspicion that Justin's sudden desire to leave my side and flee to Daphne's had less to do with the reasons he'd given me, and more to do with the fact that I'd been with him all week. He'd insisted more than once that I go out to Woody's or somewhere, but each time he brought it up, I'd tell him I'd go out the next night, though I never did. I didn't feel comfortable leaving him alone for any prolonged period of time, not to mention I wouldn't be able to enjoy myself, knowing he was back at the loft, miserable and alone.

But today, my first day without him since finding out about the rape, I didn't take the opportunity to go to the baths, or wait around for Woody's to open...for once, I wasn't in the mood for that atmosphere. And although I wouldn't be against a few strong drinks, I did want to be sober when he called me to pick him up later. Besides, I had something else I needed to take care of.

I watched the double doors at the front of Daphne's building swallow Justin up before driving off. I would be paying Mikey a little visit today. It was time I get some answers from him.

My heart was pounding, my fists clenched tightly around the steering wheel as I pulled up in front of his building. I sat outside in the car for a few minutes, trying to work out what I was going to say in my head, and convince myself that I should at least listen to whatever explanation Michael had—and I was sure he would have one—as to why he hadn't told me about Justin. When these careful considerations only succeeded in intensifying my anger, I figured I'd contemplated enough, and headed into the building.

I had a key, but I decided that banging loudly on his door was a lot more satisfactory and relieved some of the fury pumping through my veins, so I continued to pound on the door until Michael finally pulled it open.

"Brian? What the fuck's all the banging for?" he demanded rather gruffly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" I asked with false politeness.

"It's...no. Come in." He opened the door wider and let me inside. Well, it was either that or I'd have broken the door down. Good choice, Mikey.

"What the fuck's going on?" he asked, a mixture of concern and exasperation as I strode purposefully into the apartment. My skin felt hot, and suddenly I just wanted to break something. Or someone.

However, I forced my rashness under control. "Not much. I was just wondering if you were doing anything tonight?" He was watching me closely, his brow furrowed, as I paced around his living room, unable to hold still, a restless energy pulsing through me.

"Not that I know of. Brian, listen, I'm glad you're here. I need to..."

"Great. You wanted to go to Woody's later?"

"Woody's?" he repeated weakly. "I don't know, I..."

"You know, since Babylon's shutting down and everything. At least for a while. You hear about that?"

"Um, yeah...Emmett told me," he said. I had the impression that I'd caught him off guard.

I nodded. "Same here. And Sapperstein getting _arrested..."_

"Yeah, I...I heard about that, too. It's..."

"For rape charges," I interrupted him, fixing him with a scrutinizing look. "Did you hear about that? About that dancer?"

Michael nodded, still obviously a little bemused. Or maybe that was distress. "He...he went to a party at Sap's house, didn't he? At least the guy's pressing charges...hopefully Sap will end up behind bars..."

"I didn't mean _that _dancer. I meant that _other _guy that used to dance at Babylon. That blond teenager? You might have seen him around. Turns out the same thing happened to him."

Just like I had with Justin's, I saw the spark of realization light up in Michael's eyes. He seemed to have nothing to say, and just stared up at me, mouth half open. Well, I had plenty to say. There was no more pretending. No more lying. No more secrets.

"Why the _fuck..." _I said slowly, taking a step toward him, "didn't you_ tell_ me?" My voice was low and deadly, shaking with suppressed rage.

It had only been a week, I reminded myself. He'd only known for a week before I'd found out on my own, but that wasn't the point. That was one week more that Justin was dealing with his secret pain. That was one week more that_ I _was dealing with Justin's nightmares and depression and obvious inner turmoil without knowing what was causing it all. One unnecessary week that we were hurting on opposite sides of the wall that seemed to have forced itself between us. Michael had lied to me. He knew how difficult the last month and a half had been for me, and he kept the one thing that could have made it better to himself. He'd had the chance to help, and he hadn't taken it.

"How did you find out?" he asked quietly, not meeting my eyes.

"Well it sure as hell wasn't from you, _Mikey," _I said, stressing the endearing nickname to the point of sarcasm. "So? Why the _fuck _wasn't it?"

"I was going to tell you..."

I huffed a humorless bark of laughter. "Of _course _you were..."

"I _was. _That day I asked you to come over. You canceled on me. And I've been trying to get a hold of you all week," he tried to defend himself, but I wouldn't hear it.

"You should have fucking told me the _second_ you found out!" I spat. He was still avoiding my gaze, looking anywhere but at me. "You should have told me that day in your fucking _comic shop!" _

"He told you about that?" Michael muttered.

"He let it slip."

"He begged me not to tell anyone..."

"I don't give a shit!"

"Look, I'm sorry, okay!" he yelled, looking up at me at last.

"Sorry's _bullshit!" _There was a decorative plastic ashtray on the coffee table, and in one swift movement, I had seized it and thrown it clear across the room. It was only an ashtray, and plastic at that, but it made Michael jump. I had never hit him, but this was the closest I had ever come to violence directed toward my supposed best friend.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked desperately.

"Oh, _now _you want to speak up?"

"Brian..."

"You _knew _something was wrong with Justin. You _knew _I'd been worrying my fucking head off about him for a month, and you didn't think the best thing to do would be to tell me, his fucking _boyfriend, _that he was _raped!?"_

"Hey, in case you didn't notice, I'm not the only one who didn't tell you anything!" he was going on the defensive now, yelling back. But he couldn't win this. In my opinion, there had been only one right solution from the second Justin had confided in him, and he hadn't taken it.

"No, you're just the one that _should've _told me!" I yelled back. He had to have known the best course of action was to tell me all he knew, and he just _hadn't. _How could he keep something that important to himself when he_ knew _how much pain it had been causing? Daphne was different. Justin was different. Michael...there was no excuse.

"Fine, do you want to know the reason I didn't tell you?!" The expression of indignation on his face now closely mirrored the fury on mine.

"Yeah, lets hear it! This should be fucking entertaining."

"It was because I had to sit there watching him crying on my fucking floor, _begging _me not to say a word to you!" My stomach twisted at that thought, and Michael wasn't finished.

"So why don't you fucking figure that one out, instead of blaming me because I didn't tell you the second he let it slip to me? Your own _boyfriend _didn't want you to know! What does that tell you?"

It told me...a lot of things I didn't want to think about. Doubts and guilt and pain...

Michael was still wrong not to tell me. But he had made a point that I couldn't ignore. Justin didn't...he didn't trust me.

Justin hadn't told me either. I'd asked him about it...and this—hearing this, that he'd been begging Michael to keep me in the dark—seemed to just reaffirm what he apparently thought of me. He'd been afraid, he'd said so himself. He had told Daphne, he had told Michael, however impulsive that decision had been...but he hadn't trusted me?

The frenzied rage seemed to have died down inside me, to be replaced with a sensation I didn't want to place.

"Fuck you, Michael," I said quietly. His eyes blazed at me, registering only surprise. Whether at his own words or my response, I didn't know. "Fuck you."

I felt his eyes on my back as I turned and strode from the apartment, slamming the door shut behind me with a resounding bang.


	11. Infected

**~Brian~**

I knew this would be hard. I knew there would be tears, breakdowns, moments of despair and hopelessness on both sides. I knew it would be weeks, months, maybe even years before things remotely resembled normality with us again.

I didn't know I'd have to deal with what seemed to be Justin's complete distrust of me. It felt like I was expected to climb some vast mountain, and he just wouldn't show me where the footholds were to grab onto.

He hadn't told me what had happened to him at that party. Okay. I'd asked for a reason why, and I thought I had accepted that he'd been scared. Of course he had trust issues. Who could blame him? So, as much as I hated it, I thought I could accept that he hadn't told me, thought I could accept his reasons, even if I didn't fully understand them.

Then Michael had gone and thrown those words at me, wielding them like weapons, and suddenly it became a whole lot harder. It was different hearing it from Justin than hearing it from Michael. If other people outside Justin and I were realizing this...it made it more real, somehow. And besides...hearing it from Michael was...well, it hurt. Justin had told me how afraid he was because I had asked him, he was just being honest. Michael...he had done it just to throw something in my face. I was pissed and yelling at him, so he had fired back.

Okay. Justin had some trust issues. He told the world his secrets before he told me. He was afraid I wouldn't want him. Fine. We could get past that. We _were _past that. It was over, and we could move on now. No more secrecy. Or so I thought.

It had been two weeks since I'd discovered the truth about what happened at that party. Two weeks of hell, in which I realized that Justin was just...he was drowning. He hadn't come up for oxygen in a while and I was getting scared. It was like I had finally found a flotation device to throw out to him, and he just wouldn't take it. So what could I do besides pull on a life preserver and dive in after him?

He had gone over to Daphne's twice in the last two weeks. The first time, that day I'd confronted Michael, he'd stayed late, and came home only when I called and told him I was on my way to pick him up. I should have known something was wrong the moment I saw him. He was even more quiet and withdrawn than usual, and what was more, Daphne was quite obviously anxious herself. At the time, I thought it must just be that Justin was stressed after being away from the loft for so long, and Daphne was just uncomfortable around me at the moment, after our little encounter the week prior. But then we had gotten home, and over the next few days, it became clear that there was something more he wasn't telling me. Again.

The second time Justin had fled to Daphne's, he had come home pale as a ghost. I must have asked him at least a dozen times what was wrong, what was going on, but...nothing. It was like we had reverted straight back to where we'd been a month ago. His appetite had finally started to pick up a little since I'd found out his secret, he was growing just a bit more comfortable with me...I thought we were making progress.

Then something just changed. He wasn't eating. He wasn't sleeping. He was just...existing. Barely. I was trying to be patient, gentle. Which is difficult when you've reached unrivaled desperation and you feel like you're way in over your head in the middle of the ocean and your feet can't touch the bottom. So...it was time to dive in and save him. I just hoped we could both make it back to the surface.

"Justin, you _need_ to fucking eat, okay?" It was noon, and for the third day in a row, he had skipped breakfast, and was showing every sign of skipping lunch, as well. He had forced down a little dinner the last couple of days, at my insistence, but it wasn't nearly enough; he couldn't keep doing this to himself.

Justin, meanwhile, didn't seem to be listening to a word I was saying. He was cleaning the counters, wiping down all the surfaces with a sponge he'd found under the sink, despite me having told him several times to just leave it. Eventually I figured he might just need something to do with his hands, a distraction, so I shut up about it and left him to it.

But I was not letting this go.

His diet had decreased, if possible, even more in the last week or so, and I was at a complete loss as to what to do. Should I just leave him alone and trust that he would eat when he was ready? I didn't like that idea a bit, and I even briefly considered taking him to the hospital to get an IV put in. There were several things preventing me from doing just that, however. For one thing, I had a feeling being shut in a hospital room with nurses and doctors and possibly a roommate was a horrendously bad idea. For another, I was pretty sure he'd refuse...not that that would stop me if I really thought there were no other options, but this dramatic change in his eating habits had only occurred recently, after the second trip to Daphne's, and I was still clinging to the hope that he would just get hungry and suddenly crave some Thai or something. And who knew what the doctors would want to do with a borderline anorexic? What if they wanted to put him in some facility to get better? I honestly thought something like that would do him more harm than good.

"Justin, will you put the fucking sponge down for a second?" I asked, wearily rubbing my eyes. They were rimmed with red and extremely sore, courtesy of barely having slept in the last three days. I'd spent the majority of time between the hours of midnight and seven AM awake with him, usually just holding him, both of us lying there in bed together. He couldn't—or wouldn't—sleep, and I didn't like the idea of him being awake and miserable and crying while I was on the other side of the bed, asleep and oblivious.

"I said I don't want anything, Brian," he said firmly, wiping the top of the already spotless coffee maker with the sponge.

I sighed. "You're losing weight," I remarked gravely. "This whole not eating thing you're doing isn't healthy. Even if you don't feel like eating, your body still needs food."

"I don't—"

"Want to," I finished for him. "I know, Justin...I _know _you don't want to. But...whatever reason you're starving yourself for...it's not the answer, okay? Look, I don't know if this is your way of controlling things, or..."

"It's not!" he said vehemently, squeezing the sponge so hard that a small puddle of water dripped onto the counter. "I'm just...not hungry. That's all."

"Okay," I accepted. "Fine. But you _need _to eat. Just something small...anything...I'll make you anything you want."

He raised his eyebrows. "You're going to cook?" he asked, his skepticism more than evident.

"If you want," I said, hardly daring to hope that this meant he was finally giving in. "Just name it."

He shrugged. "Just some water is fine."

I sighed again. He was really beginning to scare me with this shit. How was I supposed to help him if he wouldn't let me? "Look, Justin, I don't...know exactly how you feel, all right? And I'm not going to pretend I do. But I sure as hell am not going to stand around and let you starve yourself to death. So either you sit down and eat something right now or I fucking force-feed you."

His head jerked in my direction, suddenly alert, and he seemed to shrink inside himself a little as though I had yelled at him.

"You'd force me?" he asked quietly, and I immediately understood. Shit, I hadn't even thought...and now he was scared. And this time, I'd been the one to cause it, and that wasn't okay. He had enough trust issues already. He needed to be able to feel safe with me, at least, and that wasn't going to be the case for very long if I threatened to force things on him...even for his own good. I didn't want him comparing me to them, making him do things he didn't want to do.

"No, I...Justin..." Shit. Didn't I fucking have a brain? "No, I didn't...I didn't mean it. Sorry." He wasn't looking at me, just scrubbing viciously at an invisible spot on the counter. "Justin...fuck, I'm sorry. Just...please, just fucking_ eat, _Justin. Please," I begged him. I was exhausted, scared out of my mind, and so completely _fucking_ lost in this whole thing. Even I had limits. I wasn't above begging him to eat.

I had my face in my hands, eyes closed, not far from falling asleep right at the table. My eyes were red and sore, my body ached, and even still...none of it compared to the pain I felt, just watching _him_ hurting like this. Especially when he just wouldn't tell me what was wrong, because once again, there had to be something I was missing. I knew there was.

I heard his footsteps approach, and felt his hand on my arm. I looked up, and my red rimmed eyes met his. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and I pulled him into my lap, holding him tight. His body jerked a few times, and I knew he was crying. Again. I wiped a few tears from the corners of my own eyes. I hadn't had a complete emotional breakdown, not like he had, but I had shed a few tears here and there—try as I might to suppress them—on more than one occasion these last couple of weeks.

"What's going on, Justin?" I whispered.

"What do you mean?" he sniffled.

"I mean, ever since you came back from Daphne's place, you haven't been sleeping, you haven't been eating...I thought...we were getting somewhere," I confessed. "So, what's going on? What aren't you telling me this time?"

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low and wavery, and he didn't look up from my shoulder. "They, um...they got my test results back."

I was pretty sure my heart stopped beating completely for at least a few seconds. Finally, I forced myself to speak around my leaden tongue and the dryness in my throat. "And?"

He took a deep breath. "Um..."

I tried my hardest to keep the sharp note of panic out of my voice. And failed miserably. "Justin, what did they say?"

"It's...it's not HIV," he assured me, sensing my panicked tone. I relaxed, but only slightly.

"But...?"

"I've, um...I've got syphilis," he confessed, pressing his face into my neck.

I let out a sigh of relief, my shoulders sagging. Finally, something that could be fixed. "But that's treatable, though, right?"

He nodded. "Usually with penicillin, but I'm allergic so they decided to give me doxycycline instead. And I've still got to go back again...I need to have a three and sixth month check up for HIV, in case it hasn't shown up yet....I still won't know for sure for a while. And I have some check-ups to make sure the syphilis is clearing up."

I rubbed light circles into his back, relieved I had been sitting down when he told me all of this. If I had been standing, I was pretty sure I'd have collapsed from the sheer relief. It may not be certain yet, but so far he was safe. Syphilis, but they could cure that. If that was the worst...we could handle it.

"Justin?"

"Hmm?"

"When did you get your results?"

He sighed, his breath fluttering against my neck. "That day I went to Daphne's, a couple weeks ago."

I nodded. "Do you have your medicine yet?"

"Um...Daphne took me to get it," he admitted.

Of course she had. Why had I expected anything different? Why had I fucking expected him to trust me? I'm only the one who's woken up with him nearly every night for a month and half, and held him while he cried out his pain. I'm only the one who's had to see him practically starve himself, witnessed him storm off to be alone whenever he couldn't handle what was going on, brought him out of panic attacks while he relived his ordeal in detail inside his head. I'm only the one who's watched him spiral deeper and deeper into this black hole of misery. Why should I be told what's going on?

"This has got to fucking stop, Justin," I said quietly. We needed to deal with this trust issue of his, once and for all. I was so fucking sick of being left in the dark.

"What?"

"This—" I said, "you not telling me shit. Why the hell wouldn't you tell me about this?" Hadn't I proved I wasn't going anywhere? What was it going to take to convince him?

"I was going to," he said softly. Of course. Just like Mikey was _going _to tell me when he found out. But they all only ever _meant _to tell me, they never actually did—and that just wasn't good enough.

"Why didn't you? What the fuck do I have to do to get you to start telling me this shit, Justin?" I demanded. I leaned back, and he picked his head up off my shoulder to look me in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking at me pleadingly.

"Forget sorry. I want to know why you feel like you can tell everyone else what's going on in your life, and not me."

"That's not it, Brian..."

"Then what? What's the problem? Why are you so fucking _scared _of me?!" I wasn't yelling, but my voice was firm and agitated, and I knew he could sense the tension in my words.

"Because I don't you want you to_ leave!"_ he cried, tears welling up in his eyes. He pushed against my shoulders, and I released him. His warmth was suddenly gone from my body as he stood up, arms folded across his chest.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" I pointed out.

"Yeah, for now!" he said shrilly. "But what about next week, or next month..."

"Then I will _still—fucking—be here!"_ I said slowly, determined to get my message across. I got to my feet, as well, though I didn't attempt to go near him.

"But _why?! _What have I given you? I can barely even _kiss _you! Why would you stick around?"

"Why _not?!" _I countered. "After a month and a half, why would I leave now?"

"Because you _can!" _he shouted. "I'm _stuck _in this, Brian! I went through it, it's with me, every fucking second! And every time I think I'm starting to get better, even if it just lasts a few seconds...I hear their voices, or I see their faces, and I'm right there again, and I just want to _run. _I just want to fucking _stop _feeling it, and then I remember, I _can't."_ His chest was heaving, his tear-streaked cheeks glistening. "But _you _can! You can fucking walk out that door and leave it. So why wouldn't you?"

I stared at him. He was going to make me say it. He knew it...or at least, he used to...but he was going to make me admit it out loud.

Fine. If this was what it took to make him get it, understand that I wasn't leaving him with this...if this was what he needed to hear, then so be it.

"Because I fucking_ care _about you!" There. I cared. I cared about him, more than I ever expected or wanted to, and if he was stuck with this, then I was too. If he was hurting, so was I. For as long as it took to heal.

"You're fucking wrong. I can't leave anymore than you can," I said bitterly. He had done this. He had taken me to this place where I couldn't walk away, so he was going to fucking deal with the fact that I was sticking around now. And if it took me admitting that I cared about him, to his face, out loud...then so be it.

He stared at me dubiously. "They _raped_ me," he said softly, his voice choked with tears. "They gave me this fucking _disease, _they...they ruined everything. I can't sleep at night. I can't be around people without freaking out. I can't even fucking breathe without feeling them with me, Brian." He looked down at the floor before forcing his gaze back up to meet mine. "And I don't know if...if I'll ever be okay again. So if you want me here...that's what comes with it. Just so you know. And if you don't want me here...just fucking tell me now, and I'll leave."

He looked at me steadily as I closed the distance separating us, staring down at him. We just looked at each other in silence for a moment, stormy eyes the color of the ocean meeting scrutinizing hazel.

"I don't want you to leave."

He blinked up at me, causing a few tears to spill out of the corners of his eyes, and I wiped them away. I leaned forward, waiting for him to pull away, but he didn't, so I let my lips brush his cheek, lingering against his skin, tasting the saltiness of his tears. He let out a content, shaky breath, and hesitantly, giving him the opportunity to pull away if he wanted to, I pressed my lips to his.

After a moment, he broke the kiss, but he looked calm and content. I swallowed around the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat, and offered him a weak smile.

"So, what do you want for lunch, Sunshine?"

**~Justin~**

"Brian?" I asked, taking a bite out of the grilled cheese sandwich my boyfriend had made me. I was surprised to find that it was actually pretty good.

"Yeah?"

"Have you thought about...talking to Michael?"

Brian had told me all about his encounter with Michael...with his face blank and his voice expressionless, the way he gets when something's bothering him and he's trying not to show it. I had apologized for the whole thing...I claimed at least partial responsibility for the part I'd played in it all...but Brian dismissed my guilt without a second thought. I knew I shouldn't have told Michael in the first place, and I really hadn't meant to out him to Brian like I did...so I felt largely responsible for their current feud. It was good to know Brian didn't blame me, but I still wished they'd start talking again. I had Daphne...who knew what had happened, who I could talk to, who wasn't directly in the middle of all this...Brian needed Michael in that same way.

Brian shrugged.

"You should call him."

"What for?"

"To make up. He's your best friend." Brian snorted. I sighed. "Look, I'm the one who asked him not to tell you. And he said he was going to tell you anyway, right? Doesn't that count for something?"

I hadn't been surprised when Brian told me that Michael had intended to confess everything. I knew it would only likely be a matter of time before Michael could no longer keep the secret to himself. Actually, it probably would have been a better way for Brian to have found out, if it had worked out that way. I knew it must have hurt him, finding out the way that he did. Something that only contributed to my guilty conscience.

"He should have told me the second he found out," Brian said coolly. "It would've been better for you, for me...you don't fucking keep things like that to yourself."

I averted my eyes shamefully, and he sighed, looking as though he regretted his choice of words. "It's different with you. Michael should have fucking told me."

"I still think you should call him."

"I'll think about it," he promised, though I had a feeling he was just saying it to shut me up. "Right now, you just need to finish your lunch. In the last two days, you've had a bowl of salad and a couple glasses of water...you need to get some real food back in your system."

"Yes, Dr. Kinney."

He gave me one of his patented Looks from across the table, and it was almost like old times...he'd say something, being his usual grouchy self, I'd make some sarcastically innocent comment, and he'd give me that _you-are-such-a-fucking-twat _look that always used to make me giggle.

"Seriously, though, Justin," he said, the playful look disappearing as fast as it had materialized, to be replaced with the utterly solemn expression he'd been wearing the last several weeks. "You can't keep fucking with your body. You need sleep, and food..."

"I can't sleep," I said quietly. "It's these stupid nightmares...it's been the same one ever since I went to the clinic the last time."

"What's it about?"

I recognized the familiar invitation to talk, but I hesitated. Having the images, the sounds, the sensations, in your head is one thing. When it's in your mind, you can push them to the back of your awareness and pretend they don't exist. When you speak them out loud...they're real. There's no chance of escaping them anymore.

"Justin..." Brian began.

I took a deep breath, letting my grilled cheese sandwich fall to the plate. "Well I'm—in the dream, I mean—I'm at the clinic."

"Yeah?" he prompted me when I didn't continue.

"Um...there's a nurse, telling me that I'm...I'm sick. I've got HIV, and...she says I'm-I'm going to die the next day."

"Oh."

"I'm not finished," I said, grinding the crust of my sandwich into crumbs between my fingers. "Uh, the nurse...she leaves. And I'm sitting there crying, because I'm going to die and I'm alone and someone knocks on the door, and I think it's you. So I get up to open it, and..."

"And?" Brian reached across the table, his hand closing over the one grinding the bread. My hand shook within is, and his grip tightened on my fingers.

I sniffed, trying to blink back the ever-present tears in my eyes, but it was no use. "And...and it's them. They're all standing in the hallway, so I try to shut the door, but...but they push it open. There's too many to fight, but there's a window in the room, so I try to climb out of it...but they pull me back in and...and Sap is there. I ask him where you are...I want to see you. And he tells me that you don't want to see me now that I'm sick. And then he...he tells me he's going to make the most of my—my last day. And...and they...they all hold me down while he...while—"

"All right, shh...come here..." Brian, thankfully, seemed to have realized I couldn't go on even if I wanted to, and pulled me from my chair into his arms. I dampened the sleeve of his shirt with tears, but he didn't even seem to notice.

"Maybe we should get you something to help you sleep," he suggested after a while, one hand resting against the back of my neck, the other rubbing circles into my lower back. It was quite soothing to my aching body.

"You mean like medication?"

"Yeah. It might help."

I nodded. I hadn't had a good nights' sleep in weeks. I was constantly exhausted, I always had bags under my eyes...I just wanted so badly to sleep and not see anything when I closed my eyes. I just wanted them out of my head.

The slow, even rise and fall of Brian's chest was more relaxing than the gentle rocking of a boat out on the water, his hand seeming to just rub the tension out of my body. His breath was warm in my ear, his other hand secure on my neck, idly playing with the tousled strands of blond at the back. I closed my eyes, resting my full weight against him, my head on his shoulder...he was so fucking comfortable...better than bed...

I woke up several hours later, snuggled beneath the duvet without any memory of being deposited there, with Brian sleeping soundly next to me. I moved a little closer to his sleeping form, lifting his arm up and pulling it around me, pressing my back against his chest. His arm was heavy and secure around me, my eyelids drifted shut, and though it was now only about six in the evening, we were both so exhausted we slept straight through the night, and didn't wake up until the first teasing rays of sunlight streamed in through the window, announcing morning.

~.~

"Morning, Sunshine," Brian greeted as I traipsed out into the kitchen the next day. He'd always found that a particularly clever way to acknowledge me in the morning, ever since he'd started using the nickname, even though it had stopped being clever and become more of a familiar comfort a long time ago.

"Brian?" I paused in front of the counter, and he looked up from his newspaper. "Why are my pills out here?"

The very first time Daphne had taken me to the clinic and gotten my prescriptions filled, I'd hidden the medication bottles in a pair of old socks in a drawer, all the way at the back. Now, every one of my pill bottles from the last month and a half, even the empty ones I hadn't thrown away, were lined up on the counter, from oldest to newest.

"I found them," Brian said, as though that explained everything.

"How?" The only way I could think of that he would have found them was if he'd gone purposely looking for them. Though we shared the dresser, we divided the drawers, as we both got too impatient rummaging through them trying to find our own clothes. Therefore, that drawer was mine, and he had no other apparent reason to search through it. "When?"

"When you were in the shower."

"But—"

"You're done hiding. Keep the pills out here." And he returned to his newspaper.

I thought I understood that. Kind of. Though I normally wouldn't really care if he went through my drawers, I was a little miffed that he had this time. He knew about my current health state, he knew about my medications, but...I still didn't like the idea of him finding the bottles like that. But I understood where he was coming from, and he was right. It was time to be open. No more secrets. No more hiding from him. The medication would remain out here.

"So, when's your follow up appointment?" he asked as I got myself a cup of coffee and sat down across from him.

I looked at him over the rim of my coffee mug. "Next Tuesday. Two-thirty."

"I'm taking you."

"Are you sure? You have work, and..."

"Justin," he fixed me with a firm stare, the kind that let me know it would be pointless to try and talk him out of it. "I'm taking you."

I nodded, sipping at my coffee. It needed sugar, and it left a weird aftertaste in my mouth, but oddly, I relished the overly strong flavor.

"So...how do you feel?" he asked timidly. It was so strange to see Brian being timid about anything, as he was usually so brazen and unabashed, but he had been more reserved and cautious with me these last couple weeks than I would have ever imagined possible from him.

I gave a slow, thoughtful shrug. "Physically...I feel fine, I guess."

"And...mentally?" he asked, resignedly, as though he already knew the answer.

I averted my gaze to my coffee cup.

"Justin," he said quietly.

I swallowed, shrugging again. "I'm just this...this fucking diseased rape victim now...I mean, they got me sick, I'm...I feel so disgusting, like I'm...infected." They'd left their mark. The mark of what they had done. The bruises had faded, the marks had gone, but they'd given me this. It, like the bruises, could be cured, could be healed, but it felt...inside me. It made me filthy. It made me diseased and dirty and used. They had forced me to have sex, and given me this disease, and I had been powerless to prevent it.

Ever since the very first time I'd had sex with Brian, I'd always been so careful, always using protection, so aware of all the dangers I was potentially subjecting myself to...it was a part of sex, after all...but I played it safe. And then they had gone and done what they did, and hadn't left me any choice, and in the end it hadn't mattered that I'd always been so careful, because they had gotten me sick anyway.

"It's not like that," he said. "It's not like that at all, Justin. You're not...diseased, okay? They'll get rid of it. You'll be fine. It's not your fault." And I knew that. It was just a common health problem that could be fixed and cured with ease. And if I'd acquired it under different circumstances, I probably would have seen it as such. If I had been having sex with Brian and the condom had broken, and I'd ended up with this, I might've seen it differently. But I hadn't been having sex with Brian. There were no condoms involved. I had less than no control over what was happening to my body. They had just...done this to me. With no regard for my safety or health. And what if it had been something worse than syphilis? What if it still was? What right did they have to do this to me?

And you know what the worst part of it was? They'd enjoyed it.

I'd been crying while they were laughing. I'd been begging while they were taunting. I had been living through the worst experience of my life, and it was all just one night to them. Just a night of fun. I was just a good time. My rape, the thing that haunted my nightmares and terrorized me every second of every day, had been just a good time to them all. A forgettable experience. Something they'd look back on, months from now—if any of them were sober enough to remember it—and they'd just remember that one blond kid they fucked in that swing. They wouldn't remember forcing me in it. They wouldn't remember how I pleaded with them to stop and leave me alone. And they wouldn't know that I revisited that fucking swing every night in my dreams, my nightmares. I knew so many of their faces. Knew their harsh touches. Remembered their mocking words. It wasn't fair that I was stuck with this, and they weren't. It wasn't fair that I had these memories, this experience, this disease...and they had nothing. Not even a mark on their conscience.

Brian had told me about Sap being arrested for the rape of another dancer. The one that had been strong enough to do what I hadn't. He'd pressed charges, tried to ensure that Sap wound up behind bars. How many others had Sapperstein hurt? How many would he have hurt if someone hadn't spoken up? I felt sorry for the other guy. I knew what it felt like, I was living it, too...and I felt the uncomfortable nudge of guilt at the back of my mind. If I had done what he did...if I'd spoken up, there would've been no need for him to go through what he had. What we both had.

I hoped, with everything in me, that Gary Sapperstein ended up in jail. Brian also told me that he'd named all his friends that had been involved. I wasn't sure if they were all the same friends who had hurt me, but even if they weren't, I hoped they all suffered for it. Anyone who caused this kind of pain deserved to suffer for it. That said, I found it just a little amusing how quickly Sapperstein was willing to give up his 'friends.' There was nothing definite yet, but I hoped they all went to jail.

"Have you...heard any more about Sapperstein?" I asked hesitantly. Brian's face darkened, just as I knew it would.

"No. I've been keeping my ears open. Those fuckers better get convicted."

Like always, I felt just the smallest tendril of uneasiness in my stomach at the hatred in his voice. It wasn't as though I didn't despise them, myself. And it wasn't as though I hadn't seen Brian furious before. I liked the fact that he wanted to protect me, and I knew that he wished anyone who hurt me nothing but hell, but...I had never seen him like this. Whenever the subject of my attackers, my rapists, came up, he got this look in his eyes that plainly spelled murder. Like I said, I loved that he was protective, but this electrified, dangerous Brian put me on edge just a little. It makes you a little uneasy, seeing someone you know, who you've seen smiling, laughing, playful and teasing...look so uncharacteristically fucking _homicidal. _It was a side of him I would never get used to.

"And what if they don't?" It was something I didn't like to think about, Sap not meeting the fate he deserved, but it was a definite possibility.

Brian looked as though it was something he seriously did not want to consider, either. "Then...I don't know."

I didn't know either. There were too many scenarios, too many thoughts and feelings and complications that went along with that. I didn't know, and I didn't want to think about it.

I sighed, swallowing down the last dregs of my coffee, and stood up to put it in the sink. The pill bottles, all lined up in a little row on the counter, seemed to glare at me, incapable of just fading into the background, letting me live without the knowledge of what was in me, what could be in me.

I ran a finger around the top of one of the newer medicine bottles, fingers wandering down the line to the empty bottle of post-exposure meds I'd gotten from the first time I'd gone to the clinic. I hadn't thrown it out. At first, I didn't want to throw it in the trash, in case Brian would happen to catch sight of it. But there were ways around that. There was something in me that just couldn't throw it away. Each little empty bottle of pills felt like a checkpoint. I looked at them, each of the bottles I'd finished off over the elapsed month and a half, and it let me know that I was just that much further along than I was. Just a little safer. I wouldn't know for sure for months to come, but I had come this far. I was better off, physically and otherwise, than I had been. And so I kept each and every bottle like a memento, a reminder. I was still moving forward.

There was a rustle of newspaper behind me. "There's a good chance you're going to be fine."

I nodded, squeezing the bottle in my fist, leaving little indentations from the cap. "Yeah." I could feel his eyes on me, but he didn't say anything else. "Brian?"

"Yeah?"

"What if...I'm not?"

"Not what?"

"Not fine."

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Finally, I heard him sigh. "Then we'll deal with it, Justin."

"You won't think I'm some disgusting freak?" I asked softly.

Another huff of breath. "Disgusting, no. But I've always thought you were a freak, Sunshine."

I shouldn't have felt like laughing. There was nothing funny about this situation. Nothing the least bit lighthearted. But I felt the weight on my chest lift just a little, and suddenly I felt like laughing, despite the fact that the gentle joke was probably true. Or maybe because I knew it was.

"But you'll be here?" I asked. If he was staying, if he really wasn't running...I could handle it. Maybe. At least...I wouldn't feel so much like crawling out of my skin with him here. With Brian, I could live. With Brian, I could breathe.

"We'll deal with it, Justin."

And that was as good as a yes.

**~Brian~**

I hoped our little breakthrough marked the end of his secrecy, his fear of me seeing something in him and fleeing. If he needed to hear that I—that I cared—then it was worth the words. If it meant I wouldn't have to guess what was wrong with him, that neither of us would suffer alone, then it was worth it. It didn't make everything perfect, but at least it left things open. And it was far easier to deal with a problem when I knew what it was than when he was trying to hide it from me.

He still hadn't really talked. He told me about a few of his nightmares, and occasionally had emotional outbursts in which he seemed the most open...but he hadn't really talked about what happened, and I wasn't sure if pushing him was the best idea. He still pulled away from kisses, he was still haunted by nightmares, he was still withdrawn, and there was still that aching sadness in his eyes I could see so clearly whenever I looked at him. He was still dying inside. And I still didn't know how to help him.

He was determined to force himself through school twice a week, and though I had offered to go in late to work to drop him off and come and get him when his class was over, he had refused, point blank, to allow it. After several arguments over the subject, we had agreed that I would drop him off, and Daphne would pick him up when his class was finished. I had been reluctant, at first, to let Daphne once again be there for him in a way that I wasn't...though I wasn't sure why. She'd been a part of this long before I had, and she was more than capable of taking care of him while I wasn't there. For some reason, I just didn't like the idea that, yet again, she was the one caring for him when I wasn't.

I had started up work again, though I hadn't been eager to leave him, knowing the state I was leaving him in. But there were bills to pay, and a tiny, guilty part of me was glad for the escape. I hated myself for thinking it, but going to work, despite the concern weighing heavily on my chest all day, was like a breath of fresh air. I could throw myself into my job, push the unpleasant thoughts to the back of my mind, just for a little while. There, I didn't have to watch what I said, or second guess everything I did and wonder if it was going to freak him out, the way I did at the loft.

I had fucked a few clients in the bathroom, though I suspected that should have been much more of a release than it turned out to be. It wasn't the same, somehow, knowing I wouldn't be able to erase the memory of a mediocre blow job when I got home with his lips around my cock instead...and it only caused me pain to imagine that the guy I was fucking against the bathroom wall was just a bit smaller, his hair a bit blonder. Because that was over, and I didn't know when or if it was coming back. I would never pressure Justin into anything, but I couldn't help picturing his face in my head when I was buried in some random guy's ass...but then I would cum and I'd open my eyes and it wouldn't be his eyes staring back at me, and it would feel like a kick to the gut.

Justin usually let me kiss him now when I came home in the evenings, though the kisses never lasted long or got too deep. Though some lesbionic part of me couldn't help but think his kisses, restrained and infrequent as they were, easily surpassed the second-rate fucks with the random tricks at work. Just something else I tried not to think too much about. I didn't want to think what that meant.

One day, I came home to find a message on the answering machine from Justin, informing me that he had gone over to Daphne's to hang out after she had picked him up from school. I felt a lurch of uneasiness, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. If something was going on, he would surely tell me now, right? He was just hanging out with a friend. That was all.

I had just sat down at my computer with a nice, strong drink in hand when a sharp rapping at the door had me on my feet and across the room in a heartbeat. Justin had said in his message that Daphne would be giving him a ride home, and though things were far from easy and comfortable between me and Justin these days, coming home from work and seeing him was still one of the best parts of the day. It was a slight, albeit guilty relief to step away from it all, but I truly did still want to be with him when I could.

Only when I slid open the door, it wasn't a pair of familiar blue eyes staring back at me.


	12. Dominoes

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, RL kind of got in the way. Lots of drama this chapter, though, hope it was worth the wait. **

**~Brian~**

I wasn't sure what was preventing me from slamming the door shut, but suddenly all I could do was stare at the man in my doorway. "What the fuck do you want, Michael?"

"Can I come in?" He wasn't looking at me, just staring uncomfortably at the ground, as though hoping to sink right through it.

"What for?" I demanded, my arm blocking his entry into the loft.

"Can I just come in?" he asked again, clearly wanting to get whatever he had come for over with as quickly as possible.

I pushed the door open wider and turned my back on him, heading for my abandoned drink over by the computer. I could hear him following me inside, closing the door behind him.

"So? What the fuck do you want?" I asked, taking a long swig of alcohol. Something told me I was going to need it.

He sighed. "Look, there's something I need to tell you..." he began.

"What, more cozy comic shop confessions?"

He closed his eyes briefly, as though accepting that he'd deserved the comment, resisting the urge to make a remark in return. "It's important."

"And it wasn't before?" I squeezed the cool bottle of JB against my palm.

"Brian—"

"If you came here to apologize...." I started gruffly.

"I didn't," Michael said. "I already told you I was sorry."

"Sorry's—"

"Bullshit. I know," he said, rolling his eyes. "But I told you before, and I _am _sorry. I should have told you about Justin."

"You're damn right you should—"

"Will you just give me a break?" he asked sharply. "I'm trying to tell you something, here."

"What?"

He sighed again as I took another gulp of my drink, the liquid burning my throat on the way down. "I...I was talking to Ben. Over at my place."

"Talking? _You?" _

With what seemed to be a great effort, he bit back his reply and continued as though I hadn't interrupted. "I was talking to him...about what happened."

"You told him?" I asked, forgetting for a second to be angry. What right did Michael have to tell anyone? Though he had told two other people what had happened to him, I doubted Justin wanted anyone else in the group to know. He wouldn't be happy about this.

"Yeah...I was—I was talking to him about you and me, and Justin, and...look, it just happened."

I forced my clenched jaw to relax long enough to drain a good fourth of the JB bottle in one gulp.

"But the thing was...Emmett was around, and I didn't know, and he...he kind of heard everything," Michael said the last bit in a rush, and averted his eyes to his shoes.

My grip tightened on the bottle in my hand. _"Emmett _knows?"

"Yeah...but I'm not finished. He kind of...he told a few other people...well, one other person..."

"Who?"

"Well..."

"Who the fuck did he tell, Michael?" I demanded, my voice rising. Justin...he was having a hard enough time trying to deal with all of this as it was. He didn't need the rest of the group finding out...interfering, interjecting themselves into his life in order to 'help.' Debbie, in particular...I didn't even want to imagine what she would do.

"Ted. He told Ted."

"That's it?"

"And then Ted told everyone else."

I swore inwardly, already seeing the ramifications of a domino effect here. "Who's 'everyone else?' Did he tell your mother?"

Michael's silence said it all.

"Fuck." This...this was a problem. Not only was Debbie on her own difficult enough to handle in such a situation, but she was good friends with Justin's mother. Debbie, naturally, would see it as a mother's right to know what had happened to her son, she would tell Jennifer, and Justin would...oh _shit..._

"So, let me get this right," I said with false amiability. He refused to meet my eyes, any trace of a fight draining out of him, apparently dreading my reaction. "You find out what happened to Justin, and you keep it quiet from his Goddamn _boyfriend. _Then, you tell your _own _boyfriend, and_, _in the process, end up revealing it to your mother, who you know full fucking well is going to run to Jennifer Taylor the second she hears what's going on?"

Michael looked like he would rather be anywhere but there. I wasn't feeling merciless. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? For not telling _me,_ or for telling everyone else?" I asked angrily.

"I didn't tell everyone else," he snapped. "I didn't mean for it to happen like—"

"Just...get the fuck out, Michael," I said, losing what was left of my patience, and throwing myself into the computer chair. I spun around to face the desk, my back to him.

"Brian—"

"Are you still here?" I asked bitingly.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I didn't make myself clear?"

"This isn't fucking fair!" Seizing the back of my chair, he spun me around roughly to face him.

"I'm not leaving," he said hotly, crossing his arms in a credible imitation of Debbie.

"Then I am." I stood up so fast, he stumbled when I pushed my chair back from the desk and strode past him. He followed me to the door, and grabbed my arm when I attempted to pass him.

"Get the fuck off me," I warned him.

"Will you just listen for a minute?" he pleaded, wedging himself between me and the door.

"You had your minute. Now move."

"Look, I'm sorry I lied, I'm _sorry _I didn't tell you, I'm fucking _sorry _that everyone else knows...but _you _know now, and..."

"They fucking _raped _him, Michael!" I yelled, as if he didn't already know. He flinched, falling silent. "And you didn't do anything! You knew what they did to him...and you didn't tell me a damn thing."

"But you know now—" he began.

"I should've known _before! _I should've fucking been there, but everyone in the_ fucking _world decided I was better off being kept in the dark!" I snapped, a pure, now familiar rage building up inside me.

"He was scared! He told _two_ people..."

"So I waited around for a fucking month scared shitless, while everyone else took him to the clinic, and had all their little chats with him...I was the only one who had no fucking idea what was going on!"

"So that's what it is," he said quietly.

"What? What brilliant insight does Dr. Novotny have for us today?" I asked sarcastically.

"You're pissed because you feel guilty," he snapped. As opposed to my current state of fury, he was looking relatively, extraordinarily calm. "Because you think you weren't there for him, you didn't know."

I didn't say anything to that, but it felt as though something had wrapped around my lungs, squeezing the air from my chest. "Get out of the_ fucking _way," I warned him darkly.

"I'm _sorry," _he said desperately. "I'm sorry you didn't know...but, Brian...you were still the one with him all the time. You were still _here _for him..."

"Yeah, trying to drag him out to Babylon every night, and pushing him to have sex..." I wasn't sure why I was saying this. Why I was telling him this. Maybe I had just finally had enough. Enough of feeling guilty. Enough of being pissed at him. Enough of feeling the murderous rage that coursed throughout me whenever my thoughts turned to Sapperstein. Enough of watching Justin hurting. Enough of knowing this had happened, that I had let it happen...

"You didn't know!" he cried.

"That's my _fucking point!" _I yelled. "I fucking let this happen, _then _no one bothers to tell me when it—"

"You didn't _let _this happen!" Michael interrupted, looking stricken. "Brian, this isn't your fault..."

"Then who's fault is it, Michael?" I demanded. The words were out of my mouth before it even registered that I was thinking of saying them. "Who warned him that Sapperstein was bad news? Who didn't stop him from going to that fucking party? I fucking let him walk right into it!"

"You didn't know they were going to _rape _him..." Michael said, almost indignantly. "Brian, you couldn't have known this would happen..."

"I knew it was a fucking stupid idea. If I had—"

"What?" Michael prompted. "If you had what? Gone and followed him around for the rest of his life and made sure he never got hurt? Brian, you're not fucking _superman..."_

He didn't get it. He didn't understand. I allowed them to rape him. I allowed Justin to get hurt. Again.

"He took a fucking bat to the head because of me!" I spat. "I show up at his _fucking _prom, and he gets hit in the head...I tell him something's a stupid idea, and then I fucking stand back and let him get _raped..."_

There were tears in my eyes, tears strangling my voice. Michael's face looked rather pained, as well. "Brian," he said, his voice choked, "you didn't do this—"

"I didn't stop it," I growled. "I wasn't there. They were fucking _torturing _him while I was in jail with _you_ thinking he was fucking fine!" I barely noticed the tear trailing rapidly down my cheek. There was a plate on the counter that Justin had left there that morning, and I was suddenly filled with too much fucking grief and anger and a need to _do _something...

Seconds later, the plate was in pieces on the floor. I barely realized I'd broken it. It wasn't enough. Screaming and crying and raging wasn't enough. If it didn't erase what had happened, it never would be.

"All the shit he's been through, and I practically stand back and let them do_ that _to him..."

"Listen to me!" Michael yelled over me, seizing my shoulders suddenly. "Are you listening?!"

I blinked, a little surprised at hearing the familiar words directed at me, and another furious tear slid down my cheek. "I'm listening," I snapped. I wanted to throw his hands off, but I just stood there and took it in.

Michael glared at me, as if daring me _not_ to listen as though my life depended on it, and I swear he looked more like his mother in that moment than was natural. "He needs you to help him through this, Brian..."

"I'm the one that let this happen to him..." I started again, but he wouldn't have it.

"_He _went there! You told him it was a stupid idea, that's all you could've done. It was his choice to go there, and..."

"Do not even fucking blame him for—" I began, immediately infuriated at his implication.

"I'm not! _They _did this to him, Brian. _They _did it. It's not your fault, it's not his..._they're _the ones who hurt him. _They're _the ones who didn't give him a choice! It's _not _your fault, Brian...it's not either one of your faults."

I was breathing heavily. The tears I had managed to mostly hold back for weeks were rushing forth now. In the back of my mind, I felt a twinge of discomfort, but overriding the uncomfortable feelings was an intense, staggering relief. I'd cried more than once these last few weeks, it was true, but I hadn't cried like this. I hadn't lost it completely and broken down. I suppose I might have, had I not worried so much about trying to be strong for Justin...he didn't need to have to deal with me losing control when he could barely keep himself together...but here and now, I could let this out. I wasn't even sure my body was going to give me a choice in the matter.

"Whatever happened before, you're here _now," _Michael said firmly. "You can help him now."

"I _can't,"_ I said honestly. Even after all these weeks of this, I still had no idea what to do. I hadn't felt so helpless since the night Justin had been bashed. I just...I couldn't. I could hold him all night long, I could vow to protect him from here on out, I could regret it all until the day I died, but...it still wouldn't help him. When he had been bashed...he needed certain things. He needed to relearn his motor skills. I could help him with that. He needed to learn to be touched, to be around people. I could help him with that. But touching him now would do more harm than good. I didn't know how to help him with this. Didn't even know where to begin.

"You _will,_" said Michael, squeezing my shoulders. He pulled me roughly against him, his arms around me, fists clenched in my shirt. And for the first time since I'd found out that he'd known what I hadn't, I didn't feel angry at him. I felt almost...numb. So I hugged him back, arms around his smaller frame that somehow still managed to support most of my weight.

"You'll help him," he whispered. "You'll be okay, both of you."

I had never wanted to believe something so badly.

"You're here for him, and he knows that. That's what he needs right now."

_But it's not fucking enough, _I thought despondently. _He's still hurting. _

We stood in front of the door for a few more minutes, me crying pathetically, until I released my best friend, trying to wipe away the evidence of my tears without him noticing. Not that it would do much good, considering I'd just practically had a meltdown on his shoulder, but it was time to compose myself, pull the broken shards of strength back around me again. Breakdowns weren't the way of Brian Kinney, but maybe just this once, it was okay. In front of Michael, at least. There weren't many people I'd let see me that way. There weren't many occasions that it happened.

"I'm sorry. For everything," he said quietly. He hadn't cried, but his eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and I could hear his sincerity screaming at me. He had made a mistake, but here he was, trying to make things better. I was still pissed, at least a little...he had still been wrong, but...we could move past that.

So I nodded, eyes focused anywhere, everywhere but on him. "I know."

**~Justin~**

I had my cell phone in my jeans pocket, on vibrate. Before all this had happened, I had kept it turned off in my bag whenever I had school, but these days I liked to have it charged, turned on, and on me when I wasn't at the loft. It helped, knowing Brian was only a phone call away, that he was reachable if I just reached inside my pocket.

I tried to go over to Daphne's when I felt brave enough. If I wasn't in desperate need of the loft's comfort after being at PIFA for hours. Brian had started working again, but I liked to give him evenings to himself when I could...if he wanted to stay in alone or go out, he didn't need to have me to deal with all the time. He was doing so much for me, had exceeded my expectations just by letting me stay, and while nights alone were the most I could really give him right now, they were something, at least.

I was growing restless and uneasy, gripping the phone tightly in my pocket. It was just Daphne. Just Daphne's apartment. Familiar and safe and comfortable. But not comforting. Not the loft. Not Brian.

Twice I had to resist the rising panic in my chest; I really just wanted to go home. But it was barely eight, and I wanted to give Brian a few more hours. Daphne wouldn't mind. She liked our TV nights.

I jumped when my cell phone suddenly vibrated against my thigh. Daphne looked over at me from the other side of the couch, turning back to the TV screen and the sitcom we were watching when I held up my phone in answer to her silent question.

It was a text message from Brian. '_Come home. Call me if you need a ride.'_

I frowned. I was tempted to text him back, ask why, what was going on that he needed me home for, but decided against it. He wanted me home, for whatever reason, and the faster that happened, the better. So I slipped my phone back inside my pocket and interrupted Daphne's one-sided dialogue with one of the characters on the sitcom. She had offered before to drive me home, so we pulled on our shoes, and then, with considerable relief on my part, we were on our way.

**~Brian~**

I had been expecting it. Ever since I'd heard what Michael had to say, I'd been waiting for this.

I was alone in the loft; Michael had gone home over an hour previously, and Justin still wasn't home. I was simultaneously relieved and worried about this. I was afraid it would send him into another breakdown if he knew what had transpired, but at the same time, he needed to deal with this new turn of events. Besides, I really didn't want to have to handle this alone.

Before long, there was a knock at the door. Taking a final deep breath, I slid it open, and tearful eyes, highly reminiscent of Justin's, greeted me solemnly.

"Mrs. Taylor."

"Brian." Her voice was weak, and she had clearly been crying, was still very much on the verge of tears. "Is Justin here yet?"

I shook my head, but held the door open for her. "No. He should be back soon. Come in."

Hesitating only a fraction of a second, Justin's mother swept past me into the loft. I heard her sniffle as I closed the door.

"I just needed to..." Her voice drifted off, but I understood, firsthand. She needed to see Justin with her own eyes. Needed to be with him, even if she could do nothing for him. I had felt the same way. The need to see him. Hold him. Just be here.

Talking to her now, Jennifer sounded no less upset than when she had called me a half an hour previously. I had answered the phone to find a hardly unexpected, very upset Taylor on the other end. And just like that, the domino effect met its end result. Emmett had told Ted, Ted had told Debbie, and Debbie had told Jennifer what had happened. Line them up, watch them fall. The truth had worked through that chain of people, unraveling the links one at a time.

I had told a brokenhearted Jennifer to come on over, that Justin wasn't there but that he would be back soon. Then I'd texted Justin, and a few minutes later, received a text back, informing me that he was on his way with Daphne.

"You want something to drink?" I offered Jennifer.

I had always felt, even—or maybe especially—after Justin's bashing, a certain obligation to his mother. It felt uncomfortably reminiscent of how a boyfriend would feel toward his girlfriend's father—that tension, that need to prove something. It was ridiculous, particularly for me, but there'd always been that disapproval on her side that I'd always thought I was better than. When she had asked me, (well, told me) to stay away from Justin after he was bashed, I'd respected that. More because of me than because of her. Because the things she said, the blame she'd thrust upon me, her reasoning...it was exactly what I'd been feeling, spoken out loud. I remembered thinking that at least someone had had the balls to say it. So I had granted her wish, and stayed away from Justin.

Until she had asked me to take him back. I had been a wreck after the bashing, I'll admit. So out of guilt and obligation and, if I was honest, a very real desire to help him, I accepted. When I had allowed him to get hit, get hurt, it felt like I had proved her right. I was no help to him. I had failed to protect him. I seized the second chance, and, if only on a subconscious level, tried to prove, to her and to myself, that this time I would do it. I would protect him, make him okay and keep him that way.

But now he had been hurt again. I had failed again. Proved her right again. Maybe he would have been better off if he'd just stayed away from me after the first time. If his mother had never asked me to take him back.

Jennifer shook her head in answer to my question, though I'd already forgotten what that was. To my discomfort, she gave a small, quiet little sob. I may be the designated comforter of the youngest Taylor, but I wasn't sure what to do for this one. I couldn't very well take _her _into my arms, whisper comforting words and kiss her forehead like I did Justin's. Hell, that wasn't working very well even with _him _at the moment.

"So...Debbie told you what happened," I stated. I was, if a little selfishly, convinced that this whole thing could not have hurt anyone more than me, save for Justin, but she_ was _his mother. It had to have torn her apart to hear it. To know it. Because I knew what that was like, to not be able to get it out of your fucking head, just _knowing _what he went through, and I felt an unusual surge of sympathy for her. Things like this...they happened to someone else. Never someone you know, someone you care about. They're things you hear on the news, or read about, and think they're horrible, and feel a rush of compassion, but when it's someone you _know..._you imagine every detail. Every one they describe, and every one they don't. You think about every implication, every moment they suffered, you look at them and know it happened. It haunts you. Tears you apart.

Jennifer let out a shaky breath, nodding. "How did it happen?" she asked desperately. She wasn't at all her usual collected self. She was crying, make up smeared a little around her eyes. A mess. An understandable mess, but she had to have broken down when she heard. I could imagine that conversation. Debbie calling her up, maybe asking her to come by the house, informing her gently that she had something to talk to her about...that it was about Justin, something she had heard...asking what she already knew...and then, right when Jennifer was starting to panic and demand to know what had happened, what was wrong...Debbie would have told her. _Your son was hurt. He was raped. _

Jennifer loved Justin, far more than my mother had ever loved me. I doubted dear old Joanie would give a damn even if I was lying in a hospital bed with a gunshot wound to the heart...but Jennifer...she cared. My mind flashed back to the imagined scene between her and Debbie...Jennifer would have been horrified at the knowledge that her son had been hurt. Gang raped, because that...that was what it was. She would have broken down. Debbie would have tried to console her as best as she could, but ultimately, nothing would help. Nothing would sooth the pain.

But then, with a strength summoned from some hidden reserve, deep inside, Jennifer would have pulled herself together. Nowhere near her normal composed self, but enough to do what needed to be done.

And now she was here. Needing to see Justin. Needing to know everything.

"Debbie said...there was a-a party..."

"Why don't you sit down?" I offered, pulling out a couple of chairs for us. She sat, never taking her eyes off me, silently pleading to know everything that I did. I doubted there was much she hadn't already heard, but I would tell her what I could. She deserved it. It was killing me as it was, not to know what Justin was keeping to himself. Knowing was far from easy, but not knowing was even worse. So I couldn't look Jennifer in the eye and not tell her whatever I could...not when I knew what it felt like, myself.

I swallowed around the lump in my throat. This was not going to be easy.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" she asked. She was struggling to keep her voice level, though it wavered with pain in its purest form, and I could still hear the slight crisp note at the fact that she, like me, had been kept in the dark for so long.

"Justin didn't want anyone to know. He didn't even tell me," I admitted. Accepting as I had tried to be of this, there was still a slight pang at the thought of the month he'd suffered, the month we'd _both _suffered, with that proverbial brick wall growing and stretching between us.

Her eyes widened in apparent surprise. "Then how did you...?"

"Long story," I told her. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and didn't ask again. Which was good, as I really didn't want to go into it. What was I supposed to say? That I'd found out that his rapist was being charged with the assault of _another _guy, a month after Justin had been attacked, and I had put two and two together from there? That I had let him deal with this alone for a month before _finally _realizing what had occurred? Well, I supposed something along the lines of the first one would have sufficed, but I still didn't want to go into it.

"What—Brian, what happened to my son?" she whispered. Still with that sheer desperation. Her lips were pressed tightly together, eyes red and watery as she tried not to cry, though a few more tears leaked out despite her best efforts.

I sighed. Where to begin? "Are you sure you want to hear any of this?" I asked gingerly, skeptically. She nodded, and I knew what she was saying. No. She didn't want to hear it. She _needed _to, in the same way I had. The way I still needed to, with everything he was still keeping to himself.

I hesitated. "It started...when he needed money for his school tuition," I began. "I...offered him the money...but he wouldn't take it, even as a loan."

Jennifer let out a miserable sound halfway between a gasp and a moan. "Don't tell me this is all over school tuition..."

I didn't answer.

"He wanted to get a job...one that paid what he needed...so he took up dancing at a club." I decided to leave out the details here...she didn't need to know what he'd done to be allowed to dance on the bar. I wished _I _didn't even have to know. Something about the thought of him practically selling himself for a job made me want to murder Sap all the more...Justin was better than that. Sapperstein had no right to—

_Don't think about it._

"Anyway, one night...he had to go to a party at the boss's place." My throat was feeling unusually dry. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to continue, but I forced myself onward. I would continue until my voice gave out, until it was impossible to go on. "Uh...he won't...he won't tell me much..." There were tears in my own eyes now, and I furiously tried to blink them back. Crying in front of Michael was one thing. Crying in front of Jennifer Taylor was quite another. "But...they drugged him. Something in his drink. And...and they..."

At this point, I was forced to hastily swipe at my eyes. It didn't matter; Jennifer gave another choked sob, her eyes closed, her hand over her mouth.

"How could this happen?" she asked, but I had a feeling it was more a rhetorical question than one she seriously expected an answer for. "My son...how could this happen...?" she whispered, more to herself than to me, sobbing softly into her hand.

I shook my head. Suddenly, I felt the need to explain myself. To apologize. Whatever Michael said, it was very much my fault that Justin was where he was, that Jennifer Taylor was sitting across from me crying over the knowledge of what had happened to her only son, that this entire ugly thing had exploded in all our lives. However "un-me" it was...I owed it to her. _"_I'm—sorry, Mrs. Taylor," I said quietly. "I tried to give him the fucking money..."

"Don't," she said abruptly. She took a moment to compose herself before elaborating. "It's not your fault, Brian."

I was genuinely surprised to hear this from her, of all people. Out of everyone, I would have expected her to hold me accountable. After telling me in no uncertain terms that it was because of me that Justin was almost killed on the night of his prom, I thought she would have hated me for allowing this to happen. For not protecting her son.

Fuck, _I _hated me for not protecting her son.

"I don't..." I began, clearing my throat when the words came out a little less steady than I had intended. "I don't fucking...know how to help him," I admitted.

"How is he?" she asked tentatively after a moment, her voice shaking.

I let out a low breath. I wasn't sure how he'd feel about me telling his mother these things, but I couldn't _not_ tell her how her son was faring, under the circumstances. "Physically, so far...he's HIV negative. He got his latest test results back a couple weeks ago...he's got—he's got syphilis," I admitted. "He has an appointment next week at the clinic, to make sure it's clearing up."

She was nodding, drinking the information in. "So...he'll be okay?" she asked, the hope in her voice so clearly fragile.

"We won't know his HIV status for a while...a few months...but syphilis is treatable."

"And...how is he...psychologically?" Her eyes met mine, begging me to tell her what she needed to hear. Tell her he was fine. Tell her he was doing so much better, was nearly back to normal...

But I couldn't. Wouldn't lie. Because he wasn't. Wasn't fine. Wasn't anywhere near normal.

"He's..." I pinched the bridge of my nose briefly. "He's about the way you'd expect. He feels ashamed, disgusted..." Just something else I hated about this. I hated knowing that he felt this way, when it should be _them _who felt ashamed and disgusted by what they had done. By the life they'd smothered. The senseless act of cruelty they'd committed.

"This is all my fault," she moaned, burying her face in her hands. "I tried to pay for his school, he wouldn't let me..."

"I tried to pay for it, too..."

"I'm his mother," she cried. "I'm supposed to take care of him...I'm supposed to protect him..."

_So am I_, I wanted to say.

"Has he...has he seen a therapist?" she asked, once she was able to speak again through her tears.

I sighed. "He won't go. He tries to deal with it all on his own, and...he can't." I swallowed the lump in my throat, blinking a little more rapidly than strictly necessary, and desperately hoped the break in my voice hadn't been as obvious to her as it had been to me. "But he's finally talking a little more, to me at least." _Now that he knows I won't leave him with this. _

"He's going to be here soon? I want to talk to him."

I nodded, taking the hint, the understood 'alone' at the end of that sentence. "He should be getting back any minute."

Her face crinkled as more tears leaked out the corners of her eyes. "I can't believe this is happening. My son was..." But she couldn't finish. "Why didn't he tell you?" she asked. It was an honest question. Not the same as when Michael had pointed out to me, in that heated moment, that Justin had kept it quiet. However, it was a question I didn't want to answer, especially to Justin's mother.

"He..." My fingers closed around the empty bottle of Jim Beam I'd left on the table after Michael had left. "He didn't think I'd want him around if I knew."

It was plain by her expression that she didn't understand. I sighed. "He thought...I'd think he was disgusting, and kick him out."

She closed her eyes. I was expecting her anger, a sudden burst of rage at me for making him think he couldn't trust me, for not being there, but... "So he didn't tell anyone? He's been dealing with all this alone?"

"He told Daphne," I said, and she gave a quiet little "oh." I hesitated. "And he told Debbie's son, Michael."

She looked at me quizzically. "Debbie's son?" she repeated.

"Yeah."

Maybe she caught the slight bitterness in my tone, because she dropped the subject. "Brian?" She bit her lip, as though uncertain if she should continue. "If...are you okay?"

I hadn't expected the question at all, nor was I quite sure how to answer. So I decided to go with honesty. Didn't I always? "It's been fucking hard," I confessed. It hurt, more than I could say, to watch Justin going through this. Even without knowing all the details, my mind conjured its own image, it's own horrifyingly vivid video—that just replayed in my mind continuously, torturing me by torturing him.

"You care about him," she stated in a whisper. Of course, I had told her this myself just after Justin was bashed. I remembered that conversation all too clearly...her harsh words, telling me it was my fault, ordering me to stay away from him, acknowledging that I cared, but it hadn't been enough then.

Maybe it was enough for her now. Maybe she saw it in a way she hadn't before. And I nodded in agreement with her statement. Because it was true. I did care. And I was finally coming to terms with what that meant.

**~Justin~**

I had been anxious enough these last few hours, wanting just to come home, wanting Brian, fighting the panicky sensation threatening to control me if I let it...but when Daphne offered to walk me up to the loft, I declined. I wasn't sure if it would be tense, if she or Brian would find it awkward, but that wasn't the main reason anyway. I liked to do things on my own when I could. Just to prove to everyone and myself that I wasn't completely helpless. That I was still me. So I left Daphne in her car and hurried as quickly as I could into the building, though I was fighting a rising panic all the way up until I was outside Brian's door.

_Relief. _

Despite the general reason for my trips to Daphne's being to give him time to go out if he wanted, Brian's text implied that he was home, (why else would he want me here?), for which I was glad. Though he'd dropped me off for class that day, it felt like I'd been away from him for ages, and I really just wanted to be in his arms, where I would be safe. Anything outside the loft, anywhere away from Brian, there was a constant, lurking danger. It was senseless and ridiculous, my ceaseless state of paranoia, but I couldn't stop myself from wondering if that person coming around the corner was going to hurt me, or if that guy over there was just waiting for the perfect moment to...

To do _what? _

I didn't know. It was stupid to think that every person I passed on the streets, in the halls, everyone who looked at me, wanted to hurt me. But _what if...? _The world was full of dangers. I knew that all too well. What if that random person I passed in the hallway was waiting for their chance, like Hobbes had? Or what if they were _creating _their chance, the way Sap had done? What if I was walking into a trap? My own undoing? Or even, sometimes, despite its absurdity, I'd wonder...what if that man I had seen that day, walked right passed, had been there that night with me? What if he had been one of the men who'd helped them tie me up? One of the men who'd raped me? Taunted me, called me every demeaning name he could think of, hit me to subdue me when I tried to fight, got off on my cries and pleads and screams?

I shuddered, so relieved to finally be home, where I was safe and Brian wouldn't let anyone hurt me, and slid open the door.

"Mom?"

I froze. My _mother? _What was my mother doing here?

"Justin," she whispered. She was crying, her hand over her mouth. Why was she...? Unless...no.

_No. _

"Justin, why don't you sit down? Your mom....wants to talk to you," said Brian, rising from his chair.

My world was crashing. Imploding. _Please, no...not her...tell me she doesn't know..._

I walked numbly into the loft, seeing no other choice, and sat down next to my mom. I grabbed Brian's sleeve as he passed me.

"Aren't you staying?" I asked, with a slight edge of desperation. He pulled his lips into his mouth, glancing at my mom.

"Mom? Please..." I began. She conceded, nodding, and Brian sat down again. He gripped my hand tightly under the table.

"Justin..." my mother started. "I don't know...what to say...."

I swallowed thickly, looking from her to Brian and back. My mother knew, there was no other explanation. How did this happen? Had Brian told her? How could he do that to me? My _mother? _How could I ever face her now? Every time she looked at me, she would see them, in her mind...she would know what her son was, what I had been through._ No, no, no..._

"I...I didn't know...about any of this. I'm so sorry, Justin," she cried. Tears immediately sprung up in my own eyes, at the sight of her crying.

"Mom..." But I wasn't sure what I could say. Words weren't necessary, however, as the next second she had pulled me into her arms, and was crying and holding me and whispering that she was sorry.

"It's not your fault," I told her softly. Over her shoulder, I watched as Brian stood up quietly and left us alone. I didn't really want him to go, but it was probably for the best.

We sat there for so long I was beginning to get sore from the awkward position. We finally pulled away, both of us wiping our eyes, but it had felt sort of nice. Comforting. I guess I wasn't too old for my mother's hugs, at least in something like this.

"They hurt you," she whispered. "More than one."

"I'm sorry," I said quietly.

"It's not your fault, either," she told me firmly. I didn't say anything.

"Brian says—you've gotten tested. You're okay so far?" she asked.

Uneasily, I wondered exactly how much Brian had told, but I assuaged her. "Yeah. I mean...I've got medicine. I'm...hopefully I'm okay." I wondered if she knew about the syphilis, but decided not to bring it up. It could be cured. I'd be okay.

She nodded. "He's been taking care of you." It was half a question, half a statement. But all true.

"Yeah. He's been really great." More amazing than I'd ever expected, and I didn't want her doubting that.

"And Daphne? She knows?"

"Um, yeah. They've both been great, Mom." I felt a little guilty at the look on her face. Was she hurt that I hadn't come to her? Not that I was a little kid, needing his mommy every time he cried, but...was she angry that I hadn't confided in her?

"How...how are you doing, Justin? I mean...really?" she asked. So much meaning in the simple question, so many potential answers.... I felt like dying, crying, screaming...I was alive, surviving, but sometimes I wondered if that was just part of the punishment...I wanted out, but I was stuck, trapped inside myself...I was hurting, and anything else was a lie...

"I'm doing better."

**~Brian~**

Deciding to give the two Taylor's some some space, I figured Justin was in good hands, and left them alone. I took a shower, and when I came out, they were talking quietly, so I took the stack of DVD's I'd picked up back to the video store, choosing a few more from the shelves. Most were eye-roll-inducing romantic comedies that I usually wouldn't bother with, but Justin liked them, and occasionally one of them would actually pull a giggle from him. It was worth suffering through hours of trite plots and bad PG-13 jokes and sickeningly sweet happy endings if they made him smile, even just for a second.

Jennifer left shortly after I returned. Both hers and Justin's eyes were a raw red, but they each looked a little more content than when I'd left them. I wasn't sure what Justin would have to say about this, or what his mother had told him, but I figured I had some explaining to do.

He closed the door, just standing in front of it for a moment, listening to the sound of the elevator. When it finally faded, he turned around.

"I got some more movies," I said needlessly, gesturing at the stack on the counter. "I thought you might be getting tired of Yellow Submarine." Since finishing the last batch of movies, we had to have watched that damn movie at least eight dozen times.

"She wants me to live with her, Brian," he said quietly, coming in to stand beside me in the kitchen. He leaned over the counter, arms folded.

"What?" He did not just say what I think he said...

"She said if I wanted, I could come back and live with her." Okay, so he _had _said it. Christ, _live _with her? But that would mean...that Justin wouldn't be living here. Which meant he wouldn't be living with me. Which meant...fuck, no.

"And...what did you say?" I asked. Personally, honestly...I wanted him here. I wanted to know that he was okay. I wanted to hold him and kiss him, be the one to wake him from his nightmares and comfort him. If he wasn't here...how could I deal with not knowing how he was? But I would have to, if that's what he wanted. Jennifer was his mother...naturally, she thought she was the best candidate to heal him. Same thing as after the bashing. But...hadn't she changed her mind? Hadn't she let him come back?

"I said I wanted to stay here," he said, looking as though I were insane for even asking. "If...you want me here, that is."

He looked nervous, but relaxed into me when I wrapped my arms around him, soothing his doubts.

"I don't want to leave, Brian," he said softly. "I know she just wants what's best...she wants to know I'm okay, but...I want to stay."

"And you think...I'm best? For you?"

"Of course," he said, turning in my arms to lay his head against my shoulder. I closed my eyes. "But, Brian...there's something I want to—to talk to you about."

"Yeah?"

"Um, well...I asked my mom—how she found out. She said—that Debbie told her. How did Debbie find out?"

I sighed. This was where the explaining came in. "Turns out, Emmett overheard Michael telling Ben. Emmett told Ted, who told Deb, who—told your mother."

A hiss, an intake of breath. "I didn't want everyone to know..."

"I know, I'm sorry."

"They're all going to know I'm just some...pathetic rape victim that can't take care of himself," he sniffed.

"No one thinks that."

"_I _think that. And that's all they're going to see...every time they even think of me, they're going to know what happened..."

"Justin..." His breathing was starting to quicken. "Calm down, okay? Just breathe."

His breathing slowed, but his hands gripped my arms tightly.

"No one thinks that. They're all just worried about you." I twisted my fingers loosely in the strands of blond at the back of his head, nuzzling my nose in his hair.

"How do you know?"

"I talked to Michael," I told him. "He came over earlier...he says everyone wants to see you, but they want to give you your space."

"You talked to Michael?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"And...?"

"He's worried about you, too." I knew that wasn't what he was asking, but I also knew that he took the response as the answer he wanted. Michael and I would be okay.

"So...how are things with you and your mom?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "Okay, considering the circumstances. She said even if I don't move back in, she wants me to come over when I can. Just to see me, make sure I'm doing okay. Or she says she'll come here if that's okay with us."

I nodded. Justin had a solid support system behind him, people who would do anything and everything in their power to help him. Exactly what he needed. I hoped that Michael had been right. That we would both get through this. That we'd be okay. I hoped I'd be strong enough to hold onto him.


	13. Memories

**A/N: I'm really, really sorry for the wait on this one. I actually started it the day I posted the last chapter, but I got sick, and I didn't feel up to finishing it for a while. I'm feeling a lot better now though, so here's chapter thirteen, a little later than I hoped, but here. :)**

**Also, I know the rest of the group found out what happened last chapter, but they're only mentioned in this one. There will be more with them in some of the upcoming chapters, though. **

**~. Justin .~**

"_Quit screaming, you know you love it..." _

_I don't...I don't want it...I don't want to..._

"_Put something in his mouth. Shut him up." _

"_You want to suck my dick again, little Taylor? That keep you quiet?"_

_No, please stop...I don't want to...God make it stop, please..._

"_Hey, I've got something that'll make him shut up."_

_GOD oh God...that hurts...stop hitting me! What is that...?_

"_Kinky. You like it, Taylor?"_

_NO please...please stop...just stop..._

"_Quit screaming, or I'll do it again."_

_No don't...please don't...no more..._

"_Hey, have you tried out the new toy yet? He's great, nice and tight, aren't you, blond boy? Almost virgin tight..."_

_No not again...don't do it again, please...don't do it, please don't do it...please don't—_

_NO!_

"_Come on, Justin, show me how much you want it...Ooh, we got a feisty one here, look at him fight...and what a hot little ass..."_

_Stop, please stop...someone help me...get off me...can't you see I don't want it? Oh, God, I don't want this..._

"Wake up!"

"No!" I cried, swinging wildly where solid shapes should be, but my fists weren't connecting.

"Justin, it's a dream. Open your eyes!"

"Don't!"

I could feel a pair of hands on me. They were vaguely familiar, but all I could see imprinted on my eyelids were _their _faces, their phantom hands ghosting over me now like shadows...

"Justin, it's Brian!"

Brian?

Brian was saving me?

I struggled to open my reluctant eyelids. The darkness receded.

It was morning. Full of blinding light and a duvet soaked with sweat and a concerned Brian staring at me from the other side of the bed. He looked like he wanted to come closer, but wasn't sure if he should. I gripped the duvet in my fists, trying to steady myself, come back from the hellish nightmare I'd just been subjected to.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I shook my head, burying my face in my hands.

I wished I didn't remember that. Them beating me until I'd cooperated...God, what was that they were hitting me with? It had hurt like a motherfucker, and I figured it, whatever it was, was largely responsible for the more gruesome marks I'd had the day after. They'd already had me drugged, bound, and considerably outnumbered, but apparently it wasn't enough.

I wasn't sure why they'd suddenly wanted to shut me up. Until then, they'd been savagely enjoying my screaming and pleading and protesting. But suddenly they'd been shoving their dicks down my throat to 'keep me quiet,' hitting me when I tried to fight them off...though with my wrists bound, it hadn't been doing much good, anyway.

There was a point, sometime around where whatever they had been hitting me with had made contact with the same spot for the third time, that I had finally given in. I wasn't going anywhere until they were finished with me. Better to just shut up and endure it than provoke them into giving me more pain. I couldn't help the tears, though...they filled up my eyes until I couldn't see, and spilled down my cheeks in rivulets of misery. But they liked them.

_Aw, our poor little blond boy's crying...don't worry, it'll be over soon, we won't be long..._

Sick fucking sadists.

"Justin?"

I wiped away my tears and looked up at him. He held his arms out, and I gratefully crawled into them, relieving my anguish on his shoulder.

"It's okay...shh..."

_Shh, we won't hurt you...quit struggling...we just want to see what all the fuss is about...you must be one good fuck if Kinney's kept you around this long, kid... _

A little gasp. I jerked away from Brian. He looked confused, but I offered no explanation. Falling back to the bed, I rolled away from him, tears streaming down my cheeks into the already sweat-dampened pillow.

Memories...fucking memories...why did I have to have these inside my head? I changed my mind...I didn't want to know. I just wanted this out. Gone. I didn't want to think about this anymore.

"Justin..." Brian's gentle whisper. "Turn around."

Reluctantly, I did as I was told. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, pushing damp strands of hair back from my forehead. I hadn't been to get a haircut since before the party, and my hair was really starting to grow out. It hadn't been this long in a while, but I honestly didn't mind it too much. I liked the way Brian combed his fingers through it, twirled the strands around his fingers.

I stared up at him hopelessly. Just let him see how much of a wreck I was. There was a shift of movement, and then he was lying next to me, not touching, just...resting.

"What was it about?" Same question as always. Same reaction as always. Silence.

"Justin," he said again, a hint of warning in his voice.

"What do you think?" I asked sharply, but there was an audible waver in my tone. "It was them. It was that fucking party." He was just trying to help, I reminded myself. He was just trying to be there for me. But honestly, what the fuck did he _think _these dreams were about?

He let out a breath. "Do you...can you tell me anything else?"

"Like what?"

A pause. "Did you...in the dream, or...did you see their faces?"

My frown deepened. He had never asked me a question like that before. He had asked me about the dreams, about the nightmares, but he never pressed for those kinds of details. I had told him about the dream in the clinic, but I'd left out most of the explicit points. And there were plenty I hadn't mentioned. I always figured he knew that I didn't want to talk about them. Either that, or he didn't want to hear them. Maybe both.

"Two."

"Two faces?"

"Yeah."

"What did they look like?" he asked. But...I wasn't doing this. I wasn't telling him what it was like, what they _looked _like...I couldn't. I wouldn't be able to form the words. They looked...what? Evil? Terrifying? Smirking and leering while they hit me, beat me with whatever it was they had found to torture me with? Eyes glazed over while they stood by and watched everything taking place in front of them, oblivious to my pain? Blissed out when they finally got their turn, pushing inside me while tears flooded my eyes and splashed down my face?

He must have gotten the hint when I didn't answer. Didn't even look at him, just kept my tearful eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"What about voices?" he tried instead.

"What about them?" I asked.

"Do you remember them saying anything to you?"

"What is this?" I snapped suddenly, sitting up. "A fucking interrogation?"

He closed his eyes wearily, but pushed himself up into a sitting position, as well. "You need to start talking, Justin. Whatever you remember, even if it isn't much...even if it's before it—even if it's what happened leading up to it."

"I'm not doing this," I said firmly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

"Justin, come back," he said exhaustedly. "I'm sorry. You don't have to talk. Just come back."

I stood frozen, halfway across the room. Brian was supposed to be on my side. He should know I couldn't...I couldn't talk about it. I couldn't tell him.

Slowly, watching him suspiciously with every step, I came back over and sat down on the bed. He wrapped his arms around me again, and I let him.

**~. Brian .~**

I didn't want to push him. The last thing I wanted to do was push him and send him spiraling down, lost in the memories of the night that had taken so much from him. Stripped him away, until he was nothing but raw flesh and blood and pain.

He let me hold him, rocking our bodies gently; I could feel him crying softly into my shoulder. He had been muttering in his sleep before I'd been able to wake him up, and I didn't like what I heard. I really didn't like it. Didn't like the images it provoked inside my head. Didn't like the desperation in his voice.

Hearing that, especially, I was struck once again by the question of _how? _How could they do that to him? How could someone be crying and begging so desperately and they just...they just _raped _him. Everything in him. They didn't just use his body...they stole something inside of him, too. Something deeper. Something inherently _him, _and they'd just taken it like they thought they were entitled to him.

Even I wasn't allowed that part of him. I could tie him up in a heated round of role-play, fuck him senseless, dominate him in so many ways, but I didn't get that part of him. I didn't want it. The thing about dominating him was...he _let _me. He let me and loved every second of it. I never wanted to steal it from him like they had. He could give himself over to me hundreds of times, but I never wanted it to be anything but willing, and I never wanted that part of him that...well, that _no one _should have. So what right did they have to so brutally rob him of it?

He was crying and sniffling and clutching me tightly, and not for the first time, I realized how small Justin felt in my arms. It was something I had been noticing, strangely. Justin had always commanded attention. He was just one of those people who could walk into a room and you _notice _them, not unlike myself. Even that night—it felt so long ago—under that street light, he seemed to embrace its glow. Twist everything until he was all anyone could look at, larger than life. He was Justin. He was Sunshine, he was here, and everyone better see it.

But now...there was something different. He couldn't have physically _shrunk _in size, couldn't have really gotten any smaller...but he lacked that quality he'd always had. That _'I'm here, taking you by storm, so deal with it' _quality. I wasn't sure if it was something to do with his comparatively diminished confidence, his low self esteem. Or maybe I just never realized how easily he could be hurt. That he could go to a party one night as Justin, and come out broken and robbed and...._raped. _He felt vincible. Fragile. So easy to break, and something inside me just needed to wrap him in my arms every once in a while, reassure myself that he was still there, still real and substantial and mine...but all I ever determined during these moments was that he felt so small.

Breakfast that morning was an awkward affair. I usually had to practically force him into eating; if it was up to him, he'd maybe down a cup of coffee a few mornings a week, and that would be it. As it was, he would still only eat as long as I did, too. The first time I'd tried to skip breakfast with the excuse that I was running late for work, he angrily accused me of hypocrisy, and didn't let up until I wolfed down a few extra helpings at dinner that night. Though I had a feeling it was less about my hypocrisy and more of an excuse to not be made to eat.

After the post-nightmare conversation, he had excused himself to the bathroom, so I set to work fixing us both a stack of toast. By the time he emerged, I had just set the last piece of buttered toast on top of the plate, which I placed in front of him at the table. He eyed me carefully, taking a bite of his breakfast only when I sat down and took a piece from the top of the stack.

"Have you thought about having your mom over?" I asked him, more to break the uncomfortable silence than anything. There'd been a lot of them in recent weeks. Whatever was going on inside his head, it wasn't coming out of his mouth, no matter what I said or did to try and coax it from him.

He'd been a lot better about opening up to me lately, but it was like he'd only let me in so deep, before some internal warning bell seemed to alert him that I was getting too close, triggering something in him that he either didn't want to think about or didn't want to talk about. Either way, it was maddening. I could understand it, but it cut like a knife to feel so close to a breakthrough, so close to getting the truth out of him, however painful it may be, and then suddenly seeing him shut down, close off. Or, like this morning, go on the defensive and pull up his barriers. It was nothing personal—it wasn't that he didn't trust me—he just didn't want to talk. Didn't want to deal. I was convinced that keeping all this locked away inside was only doing him more harm than good, but I just couldn't get him to speak up. At least, not about the things he really_ needed_ to talk about. I tried to keep the conversation light, just simple chatter over breakfast, but I was sure he could sense the underlying tension as easily as I could.

He shrugged, nibbling on the end of his toast. "I thought...maybe I could go to her place this weekend?"

I nodded, glad that he seemed to be making progress, to the point where he actually wanted to leave the loft to go somewhere other than Daphne's.

Suddenly, my heart sank.

"Why don't you ask her to come here?" I suggested, spreading a little more butter over my slightly burnt piece of toast.

He looked uncomfortable. "Well...I wanted to see Molly..."

"Have her over, too."

"There's nothing for her to do here. She'd get bored."

"Justin, why do you want to leave?" I asked sharply, abandoning pretense. "Do you really want to get out, or is this one of your 'I'm-such-a-burden' trips that you're on again?"

Maybe it was a little insensitive to snap at him like that, but really, by now, I was getting sick of him constantly worrying about upsetting me, pushing me too far. For one thing, I didn't want him pushing_ himself _too far, leaving the loft when he didn't have to...what if he panicked and—I don't know, had a complete relapse or something? What if he was all the worse for leaving? For another thing, I didn't want him worrying about me to the point that he was holding things back for that reason. Not again, so soon after our breakthrough, after he finally realized he could trust me. He was suffering enough as it was. If I hadn't made myself clear by now...

He didn't look at me, didn't answer, just ran his finger absently around the rim of his glass of milk.

I sighed. "Invite her over. Molly, too, if you want," I said sternly. He still didn't answer, but his eyes looked a little watery, and his jaw was clenched a little too tightly.

"Hey," I said. His finger stilled on the rim of the glass. "If I want a night alone, or out, or whatever—I'll tell you, okay?" The corners of his mouth lifted every so slightly, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. I sat back in my seat, satisfied, and popped the crust of my toast into my mouth. So that was what it was about: he wanted to give me time to myself.

Well, I wouldn't pretend the "breaks" that work provided weren't...appreciated. Or that the sloppy, careless fucks in the bathrooms weren't at least a little relief. But—as Babylon wasn't really an option anymore—Woody's or the baths were really the only other hangouts I frequented, and honestly, the physical relief of sex wasn't as satisfying as I'd imagined. Not that I'd _ever _admit to it. But, take the other day for example...I'd dragged some client into the bathroom stall, shoved him against the wall, and the moment I'd been about to fuck the idiot, he actually moaned my name. Which, naturally, reminded me of the way Justin cried out my name in that guttural, demanding that way of his that only he could accomplish, how much it turned me on, and...something just didn't feel right about it. I'd fucked the guy, still, no turning back by that point, but...it had felt wrong, somehow, afterward. At first I couldn't place it, but then I realized with a jolt that I was actually feeling guilty. Which I shouldn't be, but...there you have it. Back in my office, I'd called Justin, just to make sure he was doing okay, my stomach turning uncomfortably when he answered with a small "Brian?"

And that was just the guy who'd been readily available at work. Admittedly, getting extremely drunk and pleasantly high wouldn't be objected to right now, but...actually going out and searching for sex, while leaving him here, hurting and so torn up inside...the idea somehow didn't especially appeal to me. Since making up with Mikey a week ago, I'd been out twice. The first time, Justin had been at Daphne's. Mikey and I had grabbed a booth a Woody's, had a few beers, and caught up, enjoying the tension-free atmosphere between us. I'd been back before ten, and Daphne had shown up with Justin an hour later.

The second time, I'd hesitantly left Justin alone for a few hours and sought out refuge the way I knew best: through sex. It had always worked before...Justin would be okay for a few hours alone, I'd had a difficult day at work, and I just needed some release. Surely, I could push my constant worry for Justin aside for a little while and allow myself to let go?

I'd showered when I got home that night, though I'd already done so that morning, and tried to pretend I _wasn't _washing away the uncomfortable nagging guilt tearing at me. I'd done it again—imagined soft blond hair and blue eyes where there was bristly brown and green—and no matter how many tongues and mouths and asses offered themselves to my service, I just...couldn't let go. Sure, I'd cum—let go in _that _sense—plenty of times...but it wasn't the freeing, all encompassing release I was used to. The tension in my shoulders and weary ache in my body and rapid spinning of my mind only dissipated when I strode through the loft door and was met with a solemn, but no less relieved face.

So while Justin was here, I'd stay in, at least for now. Suffer through the DVD's with him, which admittedly weren't so horrible anymore. He seemed the most relaxed, the most himself—the old Justin—during these times. Something I relished. I usually spent the hours in front of the TV watching _him, _as he smiled or occasionally even laughed at the movies. Sometimes, during moments like these, I could almost imagine that he hadn't gone to that party, that we were just sitting together watching a lame DVD for the hell of it...that he was Sunshine again.

So for now I'd just...stay. Be by his side when he needed me. It wasn't as though I'd given up sex, and I _had _gone out those few times...if he started spending more time with his mother, I'd take the opportunities to go out then, and just figure out some way to ignore the image of Justin's face in my head that never failed to present itself. But I didn't want him going just for that reason, if he wasn't comfortable. I never thought I'd say this about anything...but his mental state was more important than the mediocre blow jobs from the random idiots I picked up in bars. I had done the same thing the few weeks after Justin had come to live with me after the bashing...I still remembered, painfully clearly, the first time I'd fucked someone other than him after that. It hadn't been a pleasant result, but it had lead to the creation of our rules. So what was the big deal if I took a small break from tricking for a little while? I still had the clients at work, and maybe I'd try to get out once a week or something.

We finished up breakfast with only a little argument in which I annoyed him into finishing another piece of toast, we cleaned up, and I dropped him off at school before driving into work. His nightmare had woken us up a little early than necessary, with the result that we'd had plenty of time to eat before we had to leave. Usually, I fixed him something in the morning, grabbed something quick for myself, and he was just starting to eat when I left for work, so I was consequently worrying all day about whether or not he'd finished and if he'd eaten lunch. Some days, I called him around noon to check up on him, ask him if he'd eaten, but I could never be sure he wasn't lying just to get me off his back.

I had a meeting that day, but the client was female, (no fucking), but it had gone rather well, regardless. Cynthia had been endlessly curious as to what had my schedule booked in the early hours those two days of the week that I took Justin to school, but I never revealed a thing. I was getting a little restless, however. Or I suppose anxious would be a better word. Was he doing okay? Was he stressing out? Was his professor giving him trouble?

My mind drifted back to the nightmare he'd had that morning. If it had been any indication of what had taken place at that party...I didn't know what to think. It had sounded terrible. Horrifying. And that was just listening to his one-sided pleas and mutters. He had been whimpering, crying in his sleep...he'd mumbled something about it hurting. Was he referring to the actual...to the rape itself? Or had they been doing something else to him? He had mentioned that he'd had injuries...he hadn't given details, and I didn't want to think about what they had done to inflict those. Had they hit him? And if they had, with what? And _why? _It sounded as though he'd had a considerable amount of drugs in his system...wasn't that sufficient to subdue him? Justin was strong, but even without the drugs, they could've taken advantage of him without much problem. I had meant what I said when I'd told him, trying to help him shift the blame off himself, that they most likely would have done what they wanted anyway. Whatever was in his system more than likely just made it that much easier. I didn't know the exact number of guys at that party, but he'd definitely been outnumbered. But then what was the point of hurting him, unless it was for the sole purpose of inflicting pain?

A fresh wave of sick fury pumped through me, causing me to squeeze the pencil in my hand so tightly that it actually snapped. I tossed the two halves in the trash, imagining what I could do to their faces, and glanced at the clock. One hour. Justin had one hour of class left before I could call him.

I mentally gave myself a little shake. This was precisely why these supposed "breaks" weren't as much of a relief as they should be. I couldn't stop fucking worrying about him.

I forced myself back to the paperwork in front of me. Work. Job. Advertising. _Focus. _

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket.

I glanced at the name displayed on the screen, and my stomach flipped.

"Hey," I said uncertainly, pressing the phone urgently into my ear. He had never called me at work before. "Are you okay?"

"Brian..." Justin's voice was choked. He sounded like he had been crying, and my stomach did another somersault. "Can you pick me up?"

"Uh...yeah," I said distractedly, already standing up and gathering things I'd need to take home with me. "Where are you?"

"PIFA."

"What's going on?"

"I—I just need you. Please?" If anyone could've felt what I felt at that quiet, desperate plea, they would never again accuse me of being heartless.

"Yeah. I'll be right there. Where exactly...?"

"Same place as last time."

Finally finished packing up all my things, I kicked aside my chair and strode out of the room, barking at Cynthia that I had something to take care of.

"You just got here," she pointed out sharply, looking at me incredulously.

"And now I'm leaving."

Ignoring the questions she fired after me, I pressed the phone back into my ear on my way down to the jeep. "Justin?"

Silence. Then... "Still here."

"Justin, what the fuck's going on? You're...you're scaring the shit out of me," I confessed.

"I just...I don't..."

I sighed. "Okay, I'm on my way, all right? Do you want me to stay on the phone?"

"Please."

I had reached the jeep, and slid swiftly inside, shoving the key into the ignition with unnecessary force. "All right. I'm here. Just...breathe, okay?" I could hear his quick, shallow breaths over the phone, and he already sounded dangerously close to hyperventilating.

The ride to PIFA, seemingly so short when I'd driven it the other way earlier that morning, was now impossibly drawn out. I finally came to an abrupt halt in front of the building, hurrying toward the set of doors where I had picked Justin up the first time we'd done this, the day after I'd found out everything through Ted and Emmett, and that conversation at the diner.

My heart plummeted when I saw him. Slumped against the brick wall of the building, knees pulled up to his chest. He looked up when he caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye. His face registered nothing but sheer relief.

"Brian," he gasped, and stood up as I neared him. My pace quickened, and soon he was throwing himself into my arms, nearly suffocating me.

I just managed to hold on to the last vestiges of my cool exterior, refraining from demanding right then to know exactly what had happened that had scared him so badly, and just muttered in his ear, "You ready to go?"

He nodded, and I released him cautiously. I slung his backpack over my shoulder, trying to shake off the utter boyfriendly-ness of the gesture, and put an arm around him as we walked back toward the jeep.

His jaw was set, his eyes staring unseeingly at the road as we drove in silence. I sighed. _More _silence. What was it going to take to get him to talk? I had thought, after the visit from his mother last week, he might start realizing that he had his family with him, his friends...me...and start to maybe open up a little more. Start actually trying to do more than just deal on a day-to-day basis, and opt for healing. For getting better, instead of staying in this...whatever it was...that he was in now. This depression.

He'd been a little more lighthearted in the days following his mother's visit, but all that disappeared on the day of his follow-up appointment at the clinic. I had taken off of work, (and gotten an earful from Cynthia), to accompany him, and luckily everything was proceeding just fine, medically speaking. So I thought _that _would cheer him up a little. I'd gotten him some ice-cream, and we had spent the rest of the day watching TV together.

That night, his nightmare was so terrifying he couldn't go back to sleep. It had been one of the worst ones in I don't even remember how long. Not altogether unexpectedly—he refused to tell me about it. He let me hug him a little after I woke him up, then muttered something about a glass of water, and didn't return to bed. I thought about going out after him, but figured if he wanted me with him, he'd come back. I hadn't gotten much sleep either that night.

We didn't say a word to each other the entire way up to the loft. When we got in, I tossed his backpack on a chair, and went to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. He bent over the backpack, rummaged through it, pulled out a sketchpad, and began to wander off. To the bathroom, no doubt, and the thought left me wondering what, exactly, I had been expecting? That he'd just suddenly get better overnight? Just because his mother turned up one evening and had a heart to heart with him? Just because he was physically fine, or at least getting better day by day? As I was beginning to realize, it didn't quite work like that.

"Hey."

He turned around. He waited as I took a swig of water, and I waited for_ him _to explain. I deserved to know what he was thinking, didn't I? Just this once, couldn't I be let it on it? This was...this was killing me, here.

"Yeah?" he asked tonelessly.

I set the water down on the counter. A little too hard; it sloshed over the top and spilled down the sides, dribbling onto the counter.

"Justin..." he tensed visibly as I took a step nearer to him. He instinctively clutched his sketch pad closer to his body, and I narrowed my eyes, struck by a sudden thought. "Let me see the sketch book."

"No," he said, a little too quickly, his fingers tightening over it. His face was pale, and what was left of his color drained from his face.

"Let me see it," I demanded again, reaching out for it.

"No!" He was ready to bolt. One step closer, and he would run. Lock himself away, in his self-made prison. Or maybe it was a shelter.

"Why not?" I asked instead. He held my gaze for only a moment, then dropped his eyes, as though I could read the answer there if I looked too long at him. "What happened today, anyway?"

He shook his head, still not looking at me, but I could see tears welling up in his eyes. "Justin?" I prompted. "What happened to you? Did someone do something?" I asked, my voice a little sharper than I had intended. He shook his head again.

"Then...?" The seconds ticked by silently, waiting...

"I got scared."

That was something to go from, at least. "Why?"

He hesitated, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He shrugged.

"That's not an answer," I pointed out. "Why were you scared?"

"I don't know. I—I panicked." He shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Brian..."

"How come?" I asked him, ignoring his pleading tone. He shrugged again.

"You just panicked for no reason?" I asked. I wasn't sure what exactly triggered his panic attacks, but I did wonder why now, why so suddenly, he was freaking out at school.

"Someone..." he started, but stopped.

"Someone what?" I demanded, an increasingly familiar protective sensation surging inside me. If someone else had laid so much as a fucking _finger _on him...I was hunting them down. Nothing would stop me.

He remained resolutely silent.

"Justin, what the fuck did they_ do?" _

"I—I dropped my sketch book, and they picked it up."

I raised an eyebrow. "And?"

He avoided my gaze. "They just...they saw some of the sketches inside. That's all."

But as firmly as he was insisting that was all there was to it, I was just as convinced that it wasn't. "What were the sketches of?" I asked, eying the little book in his arms. He must have dug it out from somewhere recently—he always seemed to have an endless supply of the things—I hadn't seen this one lying about the loft, so it had to be fairly new. Either that or he'd been hiding them again.

"It doesn't matter. I didn't want anyone to see them, and they just...they overreacted when they did, and I kind of panicked. I couldn't breathe..." His face was suddenly darker, more severe, as he recalled the suffocating sensation. "I just...had to leave, right then. So I came out and called you."

But something wasn't quite right with that story. His classmate overreacted because of some sketches? I sincerely doubted that he was talking about the ones with me, which meant the sketches were probably the disturbing type featuring Sap or his other offenders. Not for the first time, I really just wished he'd fucking let me _in. _You have to appreciate the pure poetic irony of it all, that _he _was the one shutting himself off while I attempted to coax him into opening up. When did this role-reversal occur?

"Justin, let me see the sketch book."

His eyes widened, his head snapping up to look at me. "No."

"Why? What did you draw? Let me see it, now." I was trying to sound, if it was possible, sympathetically authoritative...he needed both right now, and I struggled to find the right balance between pushing him and comforting him. I didn't want to chase him away, but if I didn't do something, he was going to slip away on his own.

"No!" I could hear the alarm in his voice, and he took a tiny step backward from me.

"Justin..." I said warningly. "Just give me the sketch book. I won't get mad, if that's what you're afraid of. I just want to see."

He looked at me, pressing his lips together, considering. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he held out the drawing pad.

Cautiously, I reached out and took it, feeling satisfaction, or maybe relief, set in when he let go. I flipped the first page, and my stomach received a heavy blow just as my heart took a piercing stab. I had been expecting to be horrified. I'd thought I was prepared for whatever I was about to find, but...

I flipped to the next page. My stomach gave a painful lurch.

Next page. I felt sick.

Next one. I couldn't breathe.

So detailed, so fucking..._real. _How much thought had he put into these? My fingers traced the latest drawing; was this what he saw in his head? Was this what he fucking _wanted? _

I stared at the decisive lines and shapes on the sketch pad in front of me, and for some reason was surprised when I felt a lump rise in my throat. He was watching me carefully, bracing himself for my reaction.

"Justin," I whispered. I didn't think my voice was capable of anything more right now. "Why'd you draw these?" Why? _How? _He was hurting, but..._this? _

He sniffed, but didn't answer.

"Christ..." I muttered, looking away momentarily, blinking back the tears that had sprung into my eyes. "Justin..."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, lowering his head.

"But you wouldn't, right? This isn't...you're not seriously thinking about...?" I could hear the pleading urgency in my own voice. "Justin, tell me you're not seriously thinking about this." _Please, tell me...tell me what I need to hear...damn it, Justin, tell me right now..._

He looked confused. Not by my question, but...his eyebrows were furrowed, his gaze fixed on the floor, as he considered. Just the fact that he had to think about his answer was enough to make me lose it.

"Christ, Justin!" I yelled. He jumped, and I immediately regretted my loss of control. I'd promised I wouldn't get mad...and I wasn't mad...just scared beyond belief.

"You drew yourself...you fucking drew yourself _dead!" _I shouted at him. My voice shook, and tears streamed silently down his cheeks.

"Are you thinking of killing yourself?! Is that what you sit around here thinking about?" I demanded. He didn't even look up at me. _"Do _you?!"

He sniffled, and I got my answer.

"_Damn _it, Justin!"

He didn't move as I stormed past him into the bathroom, throwing open the door to the medicine cabinet. I pulled out every box and bottle of pills in there, opened them one by one, and flushed them down the toilet. When I turned around, he was there in the doorway, watching silently. He moved out of the way when I went to the bedroom next, took out our razors that I kept in a drawer, and without warning, hurled them with all my strength against the wall. I hadn't really intended for that to break them...but tears were burning my eyes, and I could feel true anger now, born of fear, making me simultaneously want to hit something and hug Justin.

I put my hand across my eyes, letting the tears flow out; I heard Justin approach me. He sniffled quietly again, putting a hand on my shoulder, and burrowing himself in my chest as I slowly opened my arms to him. I pressed my face into his shoulder, breathing him in, letting the tears fall. How could he scare me like that? He hadn't tried anything, not really...but just that he had _considered _it, that he had_ drawn_ those...it was too much. Too much to think about. Too much to think about losing him, like I had almost done once before on the cold cement of that parking garage.

I hoped those sick fuckers rotted in hell for this. For making him wish he was...

"I'm sorry," he said again, so softy I almost didn't catch it. "I didn't...I was just..." He was struggling to say something, and while I didn't help him along, I didn't try to interrupt.

He sighed. "Can we sit down?"

"Are you going to talk to me?" I asked, my voice once again coming out a little too sharply.

He looked down shamefacedly, and I sighed, pulling him over to the bed. I would get the razors later, as well as any drugs left around here, and his medicine on the counter that I would now be hiding and regulating. It was too big of a risk to leave them lying around if he was thinking about...

"Look, it's not like...it's nothing new, Brian," he admitted softly. "I've been fucking thinking about it since the day after it happened. But...I haven't done anything...and I'm not going to. I just..." He was starting to lose it, plainly struggling fight back his tears.

Fucking _Christ..._he was hurting _this _badly? He was in so much pain, he wanted to be dead. He'd prefer no life to_ this _life. How close was he to just giving up right now? What would have pushed him over the edge? What if _I _would have pushed him, left him to go out drinking or something, and he had...?

I never would have forgiven myself.

His eyes were curiously glazed over, as though a veil had settled between the world and his inner agony. "I can't help it, Brian. You don't fucking know what it's like," he said, anguish seeping from his voice. Tears slid down his face at an ever-increasing rate, and I pulled him closer to me, just relishing the feel of his body, warm and alive, against mine.

"You're not fucking going anywhere," I muttered into his ear. "You're not." He didn't have a choice in this. I wasn't giving him one. He _was not _going anywhere. He wasn't...he wasn't leaving me. He was going to fucking stand here and be alive, whether he wanted to or not.

He nodded, his entire body shaking now. "I'm so sorry. I didn't...I didn't mean to scare you."

I gave a dark huff of laughter, completely devoid of humor. "Well, congratulations, you fucking did," I said bitingly. "I didn't know you thought about...like that." I couldn't even say the words. I didn't want to think about him wanting to take that way out. I didn't want to know he was hurting so much, just when I thought things were getting better. I didn't want to know he'd prefer to be dead, even if he hadn't actively tried to accomplish it.

"You have...no fucking idea," he cried, his fingers tangling themselves in my shirt. "I spend half my time just wanting to...crawl out of my fucking _skin. _I just want to stop _feeling _this. It's...it's killing me, Brian."

"This isn't the answer," I said softly.

"I know."

I hesitated, not sure if what I was about to say would make him bolt, or if he might actually listen, but... "I want you to go to therapy, Justin."

He stiffened in my arms. "No."

"Justin, if you're fucking thinking about killing yourself..."

"I'm not...I'm not going to do anything drastic Brian," he said firmly, pulling away to look at me.

"How do I know that?" I countered. "How do you think I'd fucking feel if I came home one day and you were..." I couldn't even say it.

"It won't happen. I swear, I wouldn't really...I wouldn't," he promised. Of course he was saying it. He'd say anything to get out of therapy.

"You drew yourself dead, Justin," I said harshly. "Did you look at those things? You drew yourself covered in blood. I had to look at you like that once...I'm not about to come home and find you like that again."

Whatever response he had prepared seemed to die on his tongue, and he just stared at me, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I'm getting rid of that book," I told him. I never wanted to even think about its existence again. How could he draw something like that? His own _corpse? _How had I not realized he was hurting enough to seriously consider that? I'd taken the razors out of the bathroom weeks ago, but it seemed like such a small measure to take, now. Now that I knew he was really thinking it...that it was _real..._

But that particular drawing pad would be gone. As soon as possible. I didn't want it in the loft. Didn't want those fucking sketches detailing his lifeless eyes, his delicate frown, frozen on his face forever, his body, covered in blood...couldn't think about it...yet I couldn't get it out of my head, even as a drawing.

"Just...at least consider the therapy idea, Justin," I told him. "I'll go with you...I'll stay with you the whole time if you want, all right? Just...please. You need help. You can't keep living like this."

He didn't answer at first. "I'll think about it," he promised. I would be making sure of that.

I nodded. "Good. And tomorrow you're going to Daphne's while I work."

"Why?" he demanded.

"I'm not leaving you here alone," I said in disbelief. Did he honestly think I was going to leave him sitting around the place alone, contemplating his own fucking death? Not going to happen. "Or you could go to your mom's."

"I'm not a child, Brian. I don't need a babysitter."

"That's not what it is, Justin. I just...want to make sure you're okay. You can take your art stuff if you want and do your school work. I'm sure your mom and Daphne won't mind."

"I'll go to my mom's," he agreed, though it sounded like a reluctant decision. "Don't tell her..."

"I won't." I couldn't do that, to him or his mother. In fact, I hadn't been talking with anyone about any this, outside of Michael, and even then, I left out quite a bit. Justin was the only one with the right to divulge any information, and I was not going to take the liberty of doing it for him if he didn't want me to. I'd spoken to most of the group after the whole chain reaction fiasco, appreciating their concern but asking them to kindly let Justin deal with this on his own, and not stress him out with their desire to 'help.' Debbie had been the worst...she'd wanted to come over as soon as possible, demanding to know everything I could tell her and more...but in the end, even she had been convinced to just let Justin be. She made it clear that we were both naturally still welcome to come over for the family dinners, but that there was no pressure if Justin didn't want to. He had smiled when I told him this...I think he was relieved that no one was pushing him away now that they had found out what happened. No one saw him any different, and I think he really needed to understand that. Hopefully it helped his own self-image.

I pressed my lips to his forehead and sighed, my breath stirring the strands of hair across his skin.

Privately, I thought he was still so fucking beautiful. Sweet and pure and all the things I wasn't. Still so fucking innocent—something I used to think was just an attribute of his youth that he would grow out of, but I was beginning to think it was just part of Justin. The fact that he could sit here with me, sleep here beside me every night, after everything he's been through...still so trusting of me...it said a lot. Even if he couldn't bear to really be touched right now...just that he let me hold him like this meant so much. He trusted me not to hurt him, and he trusted that I would put all the broken pieces of him back together. That I would make him okay again. But I couldn't do that. Only he could, by taking the steps he needed to start moving past this.

They say time heals everything. That pain and suffering lessen and fade with the intervening months and years, until it's nothing but an unpleasant memory that you bury somewhere deep in your subconscious and try not to let it find its way to the surface. In a year, in five years...would this be nothing but a memory to him? Could time really be that effective as a remedy? Would he—years from now—hear or see something that reminded him of that night, and shudder, remembering all the tears and sleepless nights, but push it aside? Could hands on a clock or revolutions around the sun or whatever the fuck time was, really be enough to heal him? Maybe...maybe each second of pain, each minute he suffered...was bringing him closer to being healed and happy and himself again. Bringing him back. Maybe.

I supposed we would find out.


	14. Storms

**A/N: So, this is probably going to be the last chapter for a little while. I'll try to work on the fic as much as possible, but with the holidays and everything, I might not get the chance. I promise I'll post the next chapter ASAP, though. Happy holidays to everyone :) **

**~Justin~**

I wasn't sure why Brian and I got so much comfort from just lying there together, doing nothing but breathing, but feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, the small puffs of air exhaled into my hair, the warmth of his arms and his hand on my lower back, was the most soothing thing I could imagine. I had finally cried out all my tears into his shirt as he held me against him, and after a while of neither of us saying a word, he had reclined us back against the pillows, me on top of him, and I supposed he was forgetting about the sketchpad he'd tossed onto the table, and the razors he'd thrown against the wall...at least for now.

Maybe he thought I'd drifted off on him or something, because after a while, he carefully shifted me off his body, setting me gently on the bed, and I did nothing to challenge his assumption that I was asleep. I kept my eyes closed and listened as he crossed the room, presumably to pick up the razors, one of which I think was broken, and the other that had remained mercifully intact, from what I had seen during his earlier raging. I heard a heavyhearted sigh, and then his fading footsteps; I strained my ears, and caught a distant rattling, like pills in a bottle. So he was hiding my medicine. I didn't bother to open my eyes and watch. No reason to. Brian would make sure I got my medicine as needed. Let him hide the pills if it made him feel better.

Besides, it wasn't as though I was going to....

I almost sighed, but refrained; I didn't want Brian to hear, and it was so incredibly silent in the loft right now, I was sure he would.

I hadn't meant to scare him, it had all just...happened. I'd been so upset, so fearful that someone had actually seen what _I _saw in my head when that guy in my class picked up the sketchbook...no one was supposed to see it. It was in _my _mind, and it should have stayed that way. But I had never been able to resist Brian, had never been able to tell him no, so I'd given him the drawings to look at when he insisted, and it hadn't gone over well at all. Not that I'd expected it to. I never imagined he'd freak out _that _badly....but then, he hadn't gotten used to it yet. Not like I had. _I _had been feeling that way since the day after the party, weeks and weeks of just wanting to fucking die and end the pain...but Brian didn't really know the way I did. To him, this was all news. All painfully fresh and surprising and terrifying.

He didn't get it, that much I was certain of. He didn't understand how much it hurt to feel this. How could he? For all his emotional scars, the abuse he'd suffered at the hands of the world...he had never been raped. Never had his body offered up as an unwilling source of amusement, a party activity. Never been tied down and violated over and over_._ He didn't know what it was like to close your eyes, forget where you were for even a second, and just see the faces of your attackers. The people who had heartlessly took from you whatever they wanted. Made you their toy. Made you a victim.

He didn't understand it at all.

I had thought about ending it, more often than I wanted to admit. Thought about just finishing everything. Stopping this pain. It had taken me over inside, like an illness that continued to spread...what if there was no coming back from it? I couldn't live like this forever. This slow, painful death, day by day, was worse than just ending it now. It had to be.

But I hadn't done it. There were a couple of times when I thought I might be capable...but then I thought of Brian, and somehow I'd find it in me to push the thoughts from my head, and just hold on a little longer. Hold onto the thought of him. His face, his eyes, his body, his arms around me. God, I never wanted to give that up. Every nightmare, every panic attack, every fucking second I was in such torment, made it harder. But I wouldn't. Wouldn't leave him. Couldn't stand the thought of not having Brian by my side, even if it meant I wouldn't have to hurt anymore.

It was silent in the kitchen for a few minutes. Cautiously, I opened my eyes and sat up just enough to give the loft a quick once-over from my position on the bed.

A lump rose in my throat.

Brian was hunched over the counter. I watched for a moment, and he wiped at his eyes before running the hand through his hair. I squinted, and felt my stomach wrench when I saw that his shoulders were shaking with the force of his silent tears.

I had done this to him?

I wanted nothing more than to run down the steps into the kitchen and throw my arms around him, cry with him and tell him over and over how sorry I was and that I loved him. Christ, I was _so _fucking sorry. How could I do this to Brian? It scared me that I could make him cry. Why had I shown him those drawings?

Resisting my impulse to run down and hug him, I laid back down, confident that he hadn't noticed me, and merely cried noiselessly into my pillow.

* * *

If ever I had felt trapped, smothered in my own life, the sensation only increased over the next few days. I was on lockdown. In prison, complete with guards and the whole works. I woke up, showered while guard number one kept watch "inconspicuously" under the guise of brushing his teeth or combing his hair. When I emerged, I ate breakfast, often reluctantly, and swallowed one of my pills that was waiting for me on the table. Then, I was delivered to either guard number two or three (i.e., Daphne or my mother), where I watched TV, chatted listlessly, and kept up on school work, then I was once again returned to guard number one's care when he picked me up on his way home from work.

It was all, in my opinion, ridiculously precautionary, but nothing I said would convince Brian that I needed anything less than next to constant surveillance. I could understand his concern, but it was highly unnecessary, all the same. Not to mention fucking suffocating. I supposed I should be grateful I was still allowed to at least piss on my own. Although the day before, I had apparently taken too long in the bathroom, and Brian had come banging on the door.

"I just want to make sure you're okay," he'd confessed when I'd complained about the incessant security.

He'd stripped the place of drugs, even the pharmaceutical ones, save for a bottle of Excedrin I'd seen him with, and apparently my medicine, though he kept it all well hidden. I wasn't sure what he'd done with the razors, but the unbroken one seemed to magically appear whenever I mentioned to him that I needed a shave, he'd watch me carefully the entire time, then it would disappear almost as soon as I was finished.

Ridiculously precautionary.

"Brian?" I asked timidly on our way to my mother's one morning. I had been tossing the idea of asking around my head for days, but I was a little worried about how he would take it.

"Hmm?"

I bit my lip, staring out my window to avoid looking at him. "Do you think...maybe tomorrow...I could just stay by myself?"

As I'd guessed it would be, his immediate reaction was suspicion. "Why?" he demanded, his displeasure with the idea already more than evident in his tone.

I shrugged. "I just...want to." Though I hated being alone during the day at the loft without Brian, I was fucking sick of the carefully monitored life he'd had me living the past week. Being in prison was worse than being alone.

"What's wrong with Daphne's and your mom's?" he asked crisply.

"Nothing," I said honestly. "I just want to be home. Look, you don't have to worry about me like this." I dared a glance at him; his jaw was locked impossibly tight, his forehead creased as he frowned.

Finally, he shook his head. "I can't."

"You can't what?" I asked.

He swallowed hard and didn't answer, eyes trained on the road, though his shoulders remained far too tense.

I sighed. "Brian, I'm staying home tomorrow," I said firmly. I was not going to argue about this. I wanted to stay home, so I was fucking doing it.

"Fine, you want to know what it is?" he asked shrewdly, his voice oddly strained. "I can't handle being gone all fucking day, thinking I might come home to one of those fucking drawings, Justin. I can't. So either you go to Daphne's tomorrow or I'm taking off and staying home."

That shut me up for the rest of the ride.

* * *

I stared at the little pill on the table, next to the glass of water Brian had put out for me. Every morning, every time I came out here and my medicine was waiting for me, I was reminded of what had occurred, what Brian had seen and the fears that now undoubtedly plagued him. Fears I had caused.

I sighed, but swallowed the pill, then sat down as Brian placed a scrambled egg in front of me. Who knew he could cook? He must really be desperate to get me to eat, if he was going through all this trouble every morning. Brian Kinney just didn't do this kind of thing.

He set a glass of orange juice next to the plate, and sat down across from me, the unspoken order expressed clearly in the gaze he fixed me with. Obediently, I picked up my fork.

"So..." he said quietly. I froze. I knew that tone, and it didn't bode well.

"What?" I asked, watching as he pushed bits of scrambled egg around on his own plate.

He cleared his throat. "Have you...thought anymore about therapy?"

Of course. I knew I was getting off too easy; he hadn't asked me about it all week. I shrugged, stabbing a piece of egg with the end of my fork.

He sighed. "Justin...I had to wake you up twice last night because you were crying in your sleep. If you're not going to talk to _me _about it, at least talk to—"

"You don't fucking _get _it, do you?" I accused, my voice sharper than I had meant it to be, edged with desperation. _Why _couldn't he just fucking get that I couldn't talk about it? _Any _of it?

He stared at me. "No," he admitted. "I don't. Because you won't tell me."

I fought back the tears welling up in my eyes, as usual, shaking my head. "I _can't."_

"Why not?" Fuck, he sounded more desperate than I did.

"_Because!" _

"Justin..." he closed his eyes. "I want to help you. And...I _know _it's hard to talk about this, okay? But all I'm trying to do is help you here."

"You can't," I said, squeezing my fork so hard it left little indentations in my palm.

"Can't you just..." he let out a low breath, and didn't finish. "Tell me about the dreams. From last night." Though I had a feeling that wasn't the original end to his sentence.

I stared at my glass of orange juice. Pulp free, just how I liked it, I noted. Anything to potentially spark my appetite into existence again.

"Justin," he said softly. "Please. I just want to...just tell me."

The silence seemed to stretch on. He waited.

"I was...at the clinic again." Another HIV dream.

He nodded, already hanging on my every word. I frowned at my glass of orange juice, more to avoid his eyes than anything. I didn't want to see his expression...the pity, the pain. "I'd just gotten my results back from my tests..." It hadn't been as horrible as some of the other nightmares I had. In fact, compared to most, it was rather tame, though it had evidently been enough to wake Brian up last night. "The nurse told me...I had it...HIV. And she left me alone, and I...I realized I was going to die."

"Just because you have it doesn't mean you're..."

"It was a dream, Brian," I interrupted. I knew none of this nightmare made sense...but was it supposed to? It was just some twisted product of my overactive subconscious mind. "There was a mirror, in the room I was in. I...looked into it, and..." I stopped here. I wasn't sure how to describe what I'd seen.

"And?" Brian prompted.

"I looked...fucking dead." Like a zombie in a movie. Skin stretched tightly over my bones, a deathly color no living, breathing human could achieve. Old. Diseased. Lifeless. "And I was just...waiting in that little room. Waiting for you...I wanted to see you one last time. But you weren't coming, so I tried to open the door and get out, but I was too weak. I was just...stuck in there, alone...and I was—I was dying..." That must have been when I had started crying. I'd been crying in the dream, so sure I was never going to get to see Brian again, that I was going to die diseased and alone, trapped in that little room....

There was an uncomfortable silence. "It...it was just a dream," Brian said awkwardly.

I nodded absently. "I know."

"You're negative so far. And just because—"

"I _know, _Brian."

He nodded, fiddling with his fork, looking hesitant. "What was the second dream about?"

Right. I'd woken up twice. Or rather, Brian had woken me up twice. Thank fuck I had him around to save me at night. He never let me suffer through my dreams any longer than he could help.

"Justin?" he prompted when I didn't answer.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He sighed. "You just told me about the first one," he pointed out.

"Well, I don't want to talk about the second one," I said bitterly. That one had been a bit more...intense.

"Why not?"

"Because I just don't."

"Justin, just try to—"

"Look, you don't fucking _get _it, Brian!" I said heatedly.

"Then fucking _tell _me!" he snapped, his patient demeanor slipping.

"Just...fuck off, all right?!" I warned.

"Justin, the only way you're going to heal is if—"

"_Heal?!"_ I said in disbelief, unaccountably stung by this. "Like it's some fucking..._broken bone_ or something? _You..." _I said angrily, stressing the word as I pushed back from the table. "Don't fucking _get..." _I grabbed my entire plate of scrambled eggs, and in a move it wouldn't take me long to regret, I threw it to the floor, sending bits of my breakfast flying everywhere. _"Anything!"_

On that note, I stormed off to the bathroom, ignoring his voice calling after me.

He was at the door almost as soon as I had shut it.

"Justin, come out of there," he said, a hint of warning in his voice.

"Don't fucking worry, Brian, you took all the razors out of here, remember?" I called irritably through the door. He didn't answer, and after a few minutes, I could hear him moving about the loft.

Well, _that_ had been mature, throwing things around like a two year old. What was _wrong _with me? I let out a shaky breath, slumped against the wall, eyes fixed on the ceiling as I tried to blink back my tears.

It didn't help.

I slammed my fist into the floor. It hurt, naturally, but it paled in comparison to how the rest of me felt, and it was good to know that there was at least some kind of pain I could manage.

He didn't fucking _get _it...there were things I just couldn't tell him. And why the fuck would he want to know them, anyway? If he hated the way I tortured myself in my drawings, how would he handle the knowledge of the way _they _had tortured me? Beat me, tormented me, _raped_ me over and over...

I hit the floor again. With my left hand; my right had suffered enough since the first barbaric attack I'd been subjected to. It was a little ironic, when you thought about it. A part of me had always sort of needed to talk about the bashing, but back then, Brian had just told me to put it all out of my mind and forget it. Now that he was giving me an open invitation to say whatever I needed to...I couldn't bring myself to open my mouth.

When I had been bashed, I'd had the fear, I'd had the anger, I'd had the helplessness and the lack of control over my own fucking emotions...now, it was all intensified. I was terrified of everything and everyone. I was furious at myself for letting it happen, Sap and the others for hurting me, and everyone else for not understanding it. I felt helplessly out of control of my own life....and yet it wasn't the same as after I'd been bashed. This hurt in a different way. Worse. I didn't have to feel Chris's hands on me every night. I didn't have to feel him inside me the way I did them. The bashing was something that had happened _to _me, but that party was something that was irrevocably melded _into _me now. Like my entire life from that point on had been defined for me by them, by what they'd done. Every breath I took, every dream I had, every moment I existed, seemed to thrum with the reminder of what had happened. What was inside me. What I _was. _

I sat up suddenly, crawling over to the cabinet under the sink. I opened the door, pushing aside the trashcan Brian kept there, and reached way into the back.

Found it. The sketchpad I had hidden there one day, weeks ago. And—my fingers scraped the back of the cabinet—yes. There was the pencil.

I pressed my back up against the wall again, flipping open the sketchbook to a fresh page. I began to draw.

A face. Familiar...mine. Eyes...open and empty, staring unseeingly into nothing.

A body. Bloody, with no apparent source of the injury.

Me. Bleeding. Broken.

Dead.

"_Fuck!" _I cried, loudly enough that I was sure Brian heard me. Tears blurring my vision, I violently ripped the drawing from the sketchbook, squeezing it in my fist. I sat against the wall for a moment longer, fingers clenched tightly around the paper, tears burning my eyes, before leaning forward and dropping the drawing through the open cabinet door into the trashcan. It was a stretch; I didn't feel like moving much from my position against the wall, and I accidentally knocked the thing over in my carelessness. The can hit the inside edge of the cabinet with a clatter, spilling trash onto the floor.

"Shit." Wiping my eyes on the back of my hand, I hastily began gathering the little bits of trash and throwing them back in the can. Brian didn't take it out twice a week like he did the trash in the kitchen, but there still wasn't much. A few bits of toilet paper, an empty bottle of Brian's favorite cologne, the box his overpriced soap had come in, and...

A razor blade?

Brian must have thrown it out a few weeks ago. I held it wonderingly between my fingers, my other hand still clenched around the crumpled up sketch.

It would be so fucking easy...

I jumped at the sound of a sharp rapping on the door. "Justin, are you okay? Did something fall?"

I tossed the blade back into the trashcan, along with my drawing, and set it upright again. Snatching my sketchpad and pencil, I shoved them in the back of the cabinet, shut it quietly, stood up, and crossed the room. I opened the door tentatively.

"What are you doing?" he asked gently, eying me, probably taking inventory...no visible injuries, still breathing.... I shrugged, staring at my feet, shame causing my skin to prickle uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

"Brian...I'm sorry I yelled at you. And...about the plate," I said sheepishly, but nonetheless honestly.

"Forget it," he said at once. "Are you okay?"

I nodded. "I just..."

"I know," he assured me, his arms already going around me.

"I'll clean up the egg. I didn't mean to..."

"I already cleaned it up," he said, apparently untroubled.

"Why?" I demanded, pulling back to look at him. "Why are you always so fucking..." My voice trailed off.

"What?" he asked.

I didn't answer, but that didn't stop my mind from completing the sentence anyway. Why was he always so fucking _good _to me? Too good. I didn't fucking deserve it. Every night, he was there, waking up with me, holding me until I fell back asleep. Every day, he was right there again, helping me, comforting me, protecting me, even from myself.

He frowned as I moved out of his embrace.

"I'm just some fucking...some stupid _slut _who got himself raped..." I muttered, continuing my inward rant out loud, my anger already building again. "You shouldn't have to sit here and take care of me like this, Brian."

"Will you fucking stop it?" he said, his tone calm enough, but firm. I shut up, but the anger was still there.

"I thought you should know..." he began cautiously, probably waiting for me to explode again. "Debbie called while you were in there. She wants to know if we're going to be coming for dinner tonight."

"What...what did you tell her?" I asked, caught of guard. I'd completely forgotten about the family dinner this week. I'd had a lot on my mind.

"I told her I'd ask you, but I wasn't sure."

I nodded slowly, considering this.

"Do you want to go?" he asked me.

I frowned. It wasn't the first time I'd been asked to venture over to the Novotny-Grassi household for dinner these last two months. Debbie had invited me through Brian, each and every time for the 'family' dinners, and from what he told me, she had been outwardly disappointed that I hadn't shown up, though she also understood—at least, since she'd found out everything through her son's complete inability to keep a secret to himself.

In truth, I kind of missed the family dinners, but I wasn't sure I could be around all of them like that, especially now, with everyone knowing...even if they were all my friends.

I missed them, though. Missed the in-depth conversations about art with Lindsay, the gentle jibes from Michael, joking and laughing with Emmett and Ted and Vic, engaging conversations with Ben, pretending to be annoyed with Melanie's insults of Brian, while snickering inwardly at their bantering, even missed Debbie's affectionate slaps on the back of the head, and Gus...I missed Gus. Brian's sonny-boy. I wished I could see them all, but...I just couldn't. Not right now.

I shook my head. "You go." I attempted to head for the kitchen, hoping there might be dishes to wash or something to make up for destroying breakfast—not to mention gaining myself a few extra minutes alone—but Brian followed close behind.

"Justin," he said quietly. "Come here."

I stopped and turned around, waiting for whatever he was going to say or do.

He gathered me in his arms—which was good, as the moment he touched me I suddenly felt as though the world would fall apart beneath my feet. I pressed my face into his neck, clinging to him, holding the earth upright.

"I'm sorry," I whispered again. But this time, I was talking about more than the plate or the yelling, and he knew it as well as I did. "I'm...I'm trying, Brian...but I'm so _fucked _up..."

"You're not..." he muttered. "You're not fucked up, Justin. You—you're dealing with being_ raped..._that's not something you just get over."

The words, intended for comfort, instead had quite the opposite effect. He sounded so...compassionate. Sympathetic. So unlike himself. The sour sensation of guilt flared in my stomach; here he was, being so fucking sweet and gentle and understanding...basically going against every instinct I'd ever known him to have...and I was accusing him of not getting it. Maybe he didn't really _know, _but he _cared. _Couldn't that be enough?

"I just...can't get it out of my head," I told him. I felt his body tense, his arms tightening around me almost imperceptibly. "Brian, what if I'm...what if I'm never okay again?"

"You will be," he said firmly.

_But what if I'm not?! _I wanted to demand. I couldn't keep this up forever. A lifetime of this pain...it wasn't worth living. How long was I going to have to suffer, trapped inside this hell? Stuck on this path of slow, agonizing deterioration that they had carved for me?

**~Brian~**

Ever since Justin was bashed, and probably before, if I was honest with myself—I had been a little...protective...of him. I didn't want to see him hurting, and as our time together wore on, I began to realize exactly how much it hurt _me _to see him in pain. Not to mention the raw fury that flared in my gut at the thought of anyone harming so much as a hair on his little blond head. But after those weeks he spent in the coma and the months of residual pain due to his assault, I supposed I was a little _over-_protective at times. I was becoming more of a boyfriend than I'd ever wanted to be, and the terrifying thing was—I didn't want _this_ part of it to change. I didn't want to stop protecting him. I wanted him safe, and I wanted him around for a long, long time.

But how was I supposed to protect him from himself? How could I possibly heal him if the broken bits were _inside? _I was becoming increasingly aware of the lengths I would go to for him...to keep him safe, to make him _happy..._and I was terrified that it didn't terrify me.

And even more alarming than that was the fear that my intense desire to spare him pain wouldn't be enough.

I hadn't been able to get those drawings out of my head since the day I'd coerced him into letting me see them. His beautiful body...mangled and twisted and bloody and ruined...just the thought of those sketches made me want to scream at him and hug him and kill Sap all at the same time. It was a new fear, adding itself to the list of too many. This one...on this one, I could afford no mistakes, however. I couldn't take it lightly.

Just as I told him I would, I'd removed that sketchpad from the loft, along with my drug stash—nothing irreplaceable there, anyway—and hidden his medicine and the one razor I miraculously hadn't broken well away where he couldn't find it. Maybe the safety measures, not to mention the nearly constant surveillance, was a bit much...something he regularly pointed out...but how was I supposed to know he wouldn't suddenly just snap? What if he decided he couldn't take it anymore, and wanted to end it all? He had been considering it, obviously...if he was hurting so much, I couldn't take the chance that it would happen. I couldn't take the chance of one of those drawings becoming the reality.

Christ, I wanted to fucking_ murder_ them all for this. Murder them for making him want to die. The fury, the hate, the _rage _I felt for them was unlike anything I'd ever known, almost too intense to be contained. It shook me a little, knowing how much I could enjoy causing them pain, watching them die the slow, painful death I would ensure it to be. And every time I looked into Justin's eyes, every time I saw the overpowering sadness there_—_almost as though he had _become _a living form of unfathomable despair—the fury built a little bit more. That was one more drop of blood I wanted to see them spill. One more scream I wanted to hear being torn from their lips.

The one thing I wanted more than to see them suffer, however—the lighter side of my passion—was wanting Justin to just be_ better. _I wanted to see him smile. I wanted to see the spark in his eyes when he laughed, the pure joy that used to radiate from him whenever he was even _around _me.... If I couldn't have that, then I wanted him at the point where he wasn't fucking _dying_ from the inside, at least...Christ, he couldn't take much more of this. But he wouldn't talk and he wouldn't get help...I had done everything I could think of to do. He wasn't getting better, and I had run out of options. What was I supposed to do now, fucking drag him to a therapist and force him to talk? Somehow I didn't think it would work too well, or I might've tried it. I had never felt more helpless, more desperate...I had never needed to help someone as much as I needed to help Justin with this. Needed to replace that part of him that they stole, repair the bits of him they had shattered.

I hadn't left him alone for any prolonged period of time since the day I'd picked him up at PIFA during his panic episode. He reluctantly agreed to stay at his mother's or Daphne's when I wasn't home; I didn't trust him to be by himself, despite the fact that he'd made it clear, in his opinion anyway, that he wouldn't try anything. But how could I believe that, when I'd seen firsthand the horrors that ran through his head?

He had his occasional outbursts, and they always ended with him in tears, apologizing profusely for whatever he had said or done. Like the day he'd thrown his breakfast on the floor, claiming that I just didn't understand. And it was true. I didn't. I had never gone through anything like what he had...how could I possibly know what it was like? I'd taken my fair share of abuse, but never anything sexual, and never anything like fucking _gang rape. _Nothing even close. Just like he wouldn't understand what it was like to be an eight year old, getting smacked across the face by his drunken father...I didn't understand what it was like to be brutally forced into sex against my will. Only I was sure if he'd just fucking _talk _to me, it would be better than locking it all away where no one could reach, where _he _didn't even attempt to touch it. He was trying to get through this, but he wasn't trying to _deal _with it, not really. If he truly wanted to deal with it all, he would stop shutting his pain away and trying to be fine and move on, and take a moment to open up, let it out and let me in. Allow me to take this from him, pry his burden from his hands and shoulder some of it myself. Just fucking let me_ inside, _the way he used to do. Always so open, so willing to let me have every part of him....

How could so much have changed between that time and now?

**~Justin~**

"Justin? What is this?"

I looked up from the TV, squinting to see what he was holding. I paled.

"Where...how did you find that?" I demanded, my pulse racing.

"I was taking out the trash in the bathroom," he answered. Lucky he was overlooking the razor blade, I supposed. The drawing was smoothed out, my lifeless body etched onto the paper.

"I thought you were done with those," he admitted, taking a seat beside me on the couch. His face was impassive, but his voice contained the smallest tremor that gave away just how upset he was. I shrugged, not meeting his eyes. He let out a long, heavy breath, as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Justin..." I waited for him to gather his bearings. "You're going to therapy Monday."

My eyes widened. "You can't—" I began.

"I can," he interrupted firmly. "I'm setting up an appointment, and you're going to go Monday."

"How am I going to get there?" I asked, as though his plan was now completely foiled.

"I'll take off work."

"Brian, you're going to get fired if you keep taking off like this."

"Don't worry about me. I'm taking care of it. You're going Monday," he repeated, but I wasn't giving up yet. He couldn't _make _me. Not if I really didn't want to. Brian couldn't make me do anything.

"I'm not," I said, leaning back against the couch cushions, though a tendril of anxiety undermined my unyielding exterior. Brian could not force me to go to therapy and talk to someone. He couldn't and he wouldn't. He wasn't _them. _He wouldn't force me to do anything I didn't want to.

_It's not the same, _some part of me whispered. That was true, I noted grudgingly. Brian was trying to do what was best for me, a far cry from what they'd done. They'd done that _to _me, Brian was doing this _for _me. There was definitely a notable distinction. But still...if I said no, he couldn't force me, right? He couldn't physically force my mouth open and words to come out. That was absurd.

"Yes, you are, Justin. I'm not going to fucking look at another one of these." He squeezed the paper in his hand, and I could almost sense his desire to tear it into pieces, though it would do nothing for the image I was sure he had burned on the inside of his eyelids. Throwing the paper away had done nothing for the image on the inside of mine.

"Then don't," I said stubbornly.

"Damn it, Justin..." he rubbed his eyes wearily. "Why won't you just...fucking do this the easy way, and go?"

_Because it's not easy, _I wanted to say. It wasn't fucking _easy _in any way, shape, or form. How could _any _of this be the least bit fucking _simple?_

"Justin, look at me." He waited until I'd dragged my eyes up to meet desperate hazel. "I think...you're making it harder than it has to be...and—"

"What do you know about how hard it is?" I asked waspishly. "You didn't have to fucking live it." The words seemed to fall from my tongue of their own accord. I didn't mean to say them, no matter how true they rang. No, he hadn't had to live it, he _didn't _get it...which was precisely why he was asking me to explain it to him.

He didn't seem to have a reply to that. "Look, Justin...you need to—get this out, okay? You can't keep ignoring it and expect to get better...you need to talk about it to someone. And if it's not me—fuck, even if it is me—you need a professional to help you deal with this."

"You don't get it," I said quietly, my voice strained, once again speaking without thought. Speaking out of fear, not out of rationality. "I don't _want _to fucking talk about it—I _can't. _I just want to fucking forget it ever—"

"Well, obviously, that's not working, Justin," he interrupted coolly. "What is it going to take to get you to start fucking _talking?"_

"Why the fuck do you want to know, huh?" I asked bitingly, the panic in my chest too strong to leave room for logical thinking. He was too close. He was digging, rooting through all my bullshit replies designed to deter him, and I couldn't let him in any further. I couldn't let him see, let him hear, let him _know... _"You want to fucking hear everything they did to me? What, will it turn you on or something?" It was complete shit, and we both knew it; I was spewing out whatever I could think of. Whatever kept him away. Whatever I could conjure up to protect myself.

His expression was unreadable, guarded, but his eyes betrayed him with the flash of hurt within the hazel orbs. "Fine, Justin. Don't fucking talk to me." He stood up rather calmly, passing me on his way to the bedroom, and paused, looking back over his shoulder. "But you're still going to therapy Monday."

I pressed myself into the couch cushions, seething, and stared at the drawing he'd left in his place, chasing thoughts of his therapy threat from my mind, and trying equally hard not to think about how fucking maddeningly, undeniably _right _he was about everything.

It _wasn't _working, my method of dealing. Pretending it never even happened was only pulling me further into this hellhole I was currently living in, but I literally could not find the strength inside me to pry the thoughts from my mind and twist them into words. It was bad enough to relive it inside my own head, but to actually have to go through the ordeal out loud...how could I possibly force my tongue into submission and make it say what I'd rather just forget?

* * *

_There was a rustle of movement around me. I gasped, looking around frantically for the source of the noise. I was on the ground, in the middle of a darkened room. Hurt. Victimized. But alone. _

_But...what if they came back? What if they wanted more from me? I couldn't take any more...I just couldn't. I could barely stand being alive inside my own skin right now. I couldn't take anything else they dealt out. _

_But what if I didn't have a choice?_

_I felt a ripple of terror run through me as a figure emerged from the shadows ahead. The fear gave way to relief when I realized, even through the hazy shadows, who it was...the familiar angle of the shoulders, the gentle features, the impossibly intense hazel eyes..._

"_Brian," I moaned. Brian would save me now. He would take me back with him, keep _them _away from me.... I was safe. I was home. As long as I had him with me, I would be okay._

_Brian reached me, still a pathetic huddle on the ground, then at once his arms were around me, pulling me close, and I was breathing him in. _

"_Justin..." he said softly, his breath tickling my ear. "I've got you now...it's okay..."_

"_Brian, please..." I whispered, "please, take me home..."_

"_Not yet." But the voice wasn't his. _

_I pulled away to look up at him, and let out a shout of horror. The soft spikes of hair I loved to run my fingers through, the warm hazel eyes, the stunningly beautiful features...all gone. In their place were graying curls, steely dark eyes, and the crooked grin of the man who had decided that he had a right to define every moment of my life with misery and suffering. _

"_You," I whimpered, paralyzed with gut-wrenching fear. _

_His grin widened. "What's the matter, Justin? You don't look happy to see me."_

"_No!" I sobbed, trying to break his hold on me. The merciless gray eyes flashed in amusement. My stomach turned. "Let go!"_

"_Relax..." he said, the word slithering off his tongue. He released his iron grip on my left hip, brushing his hand against the side of my face, still holding me tight with his other arm. I shuddered. I just wanted to go home, where Brian was waiting for me...where he would erase the metaphorical hand prints they'd all left on my body and make me his again. Make me clean and pure and_ his, _the way I needed to be right now...the way I was meant to be..._

"_Please..." I implored desperately. "Let me go..."_

"_What's wrong?" Gary Sapperstein asked, all feigned concern. _

"_You _know!"_ I spat. "You know...you _raped_ me!" The accusation, out loud, tasted like venom on my tongue as it was thrown at him, but the words continued to circle incessantly around in my head, over and over, viciously honest. _

"_Raped you?" Sap's eyebrow arched in surprise. "I would never do that. You begged me to fuck you, remember, Justin? You wanted it."_

"_I didn't! You made me...and you let them..." my voice cracked. _

_His face hardened. "You got what you asked for, Justin. Nothing else. You wanted everything," he whispered throatily, moving closer. I tensed as his breath ghosted over my neck. "You wanted me to kiss you..."_

_The cool sensation of lips on my skin... "Don't!"_ _I told him, pushing him gently. I meant it to be a much more forceful gesture, but my limbs were curiously weak and ineffective._

"_You begged for it, remember? You wanted me to mark you..." he continued in a hiss. I gasped as he ran his tongue along my neck before biting it, and I knew he'd left teeth marks behind, like some kind of vampire...cold and heartless..._

"Don't!"_ I repeated loudly, pushing him again. He barely budged. I had a last brief glimpse of the wicked grin and cruel eyes before he was above me, flattening me beneath him. No...no not again...please not again..._

"_Get off me!" I cried, protesting his every movement against my body. He continued relentlessly, oblivious to my pleads and screams and weak shoves. No no no..._

"_Stop! Don't!"_ _He was all over me, everywhere at once, while I struggled fruitlessly against him. I clawed at his arms, begging and sobbing and screaming, but he shoved my hands aside and dug his nails into my skin, tearing at the flesh he found, sinking his teeth into my lips hard enough to bleed..._

"_NO! I said _stop!"_ But he wasn't stopping and it hurt so much and I just wanted it to end...God, let it end now...just kill me...anything, just let it be done...."Please!" I could feel him everywhere. Outside. Inside. Taking me over. I began to drift away, close myself off and take refuge someplace where I wasn't completely here with him...and yet I could still feel everything with painfully sharp clarity. I was still far more alive than I wanted to be at that moment. _

"_Justin..." he taunted, sending pain coursing throughout my body with every movement. Tearing me in two. "Ah, you're so fucking tight, Justin..."_

"_Please...stop..." But the cold gray eyes remained aloof, and he cried out in what I assumed was pleasure, gasping his delight....he was _enjoying _this..._

_And then it was over. _

_Salty wet tears poured down my cheeks. My body ached all over, and I knew if I looked, I would see the physical damage of what he'd done. I could feel bruises, the result of his roughness and my struggling, already beginning to form. _

_His breathing was heavy above me, and he just looked at me, at what he'd _done_ to me..._

"_You were great," he whispered. Like I'd had a choice. Like he'd given me one. Like it had been_ _fucking_ willing, _and I'd just given him the best night he'd ever had. "Don't cry..." he barked harshly. "You wanted this, remember?"_

_No...I didn't want it...I didn't want to...why did he make me? Why didn't he stop? Why didn't he listen when I said no?_

_Gary's face swam in front of me, our eyes meeting, tearful cerulean against indifferent silver, and then somehow I was gone...falling headfirst into the welcome embrace of darkness..._

With a gasp, I jerked awake, my eyes flying open.

The nauseous sensation that usually accompanied such dreams was instantaneous and overpowering. I gulped down fresh air, pulling myself back to reality, fighting the familiar urges to scream and throw up and attempt to physically claw the filthy feeling from my skin. I glanced instinctively to my left, but Brian was still asleep, which was good—he needed it—though it meant I was somewhat alone.

I sighed, running my hands through my sweat soaked hair, and wiping away the tears that had formed at the corners of my eyes. Fucking unusual dream...Brian turning into Gary...Gary coming back into The Room, as I had begun to call it in my head...the room where it had happened for real...

Christ, couldn't I just let this go for once? Couldn't I just forget his eyes and his face and his hands and _him _for one fucking night?

And this wasn't even the worst kind of dream. The worst usually involved _all _of them, surrounding me, all over, everywhere at once...the way it had really happened. But somehow, Gary had always stood out from the others in my mind. And I had a feeling it was more than just the fact that I'd known him previously that was the reason for that.

It was because he had been the first.

No matter what had followed, what horrors they'd entertained themselves with that awaited me after that...that one moment, looking up into his eyes, seeing the stony indifference there, just before I'd had life as I'd known it ripped from me...that had been the instant that remained as sharply defined in my mind as if it had happened a day ago. I would never forget that moment of sick realization of what was about to happen. Of course, I'd known before that. I'd known when Sap had started talking about that swing what he'd been planning to do...but that one second with him was where I really _knew _what was coming, and what it meant, and that there was no way out of it. It was the last instant before everything had changed forever, simply because he had seen a chance to take what he wanted, and seized it.

Slowly, so as not to wake Brian, I slid my legs over the side of the bed and lifted myself from the mattress, trying not to shift it too much. I padded across the room, down the steps, and into the living room, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I hadn't woken him up. He'd looked fucking exhausted today. I could deal with this one on my own. In fact, I kind of preferred it. We had both cooled off (well, I had...he hadn't seemed incredibly perturbed to begin with) after our most recent therapy discussion, and now had apparently settled into a silent agreement not to talk about it, and instead wait to see what would happen, though as firmly as he insisted that I _was _going, I was still resolute in my decision not to set foot inside a therapist's office.

Brian was right, though, as much as I hated to admit it. I couldn't keep pushing these things down and expect to get better. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result...wasn't that the definition of insanity? I knew what needed to happen just as well as he did, only I didn't want to admit it, because then came the next part. Actually doing it, and that was so much harder. There was a gaping chasm, I was realizing, between thought and action. Some things were so much easier thought about in theory than physically done.

Although...admitting I needed help of some sort...that I couldn't push this away...wasn't that a good first step? The question was, where did I find the strength to take the next one?

Sighing, I picked up the drawing pad I'd left on the couch earlier that day, and took up my favorite place by the window. I wished I had Brian to curl up to at the moment, but I wouldn't wake him up if I could help it. He deserved a full night's sleep, even if it meant I was out here crying alone.

I rested my forehead against the cool glass of the window momentarily; silvery beams of moonlight struggled to break through the darkened clouds threatening to overshadow them, glinting off the window. It was supposed to storm early tomorrow morning, I remembered. It seemed to be shaping up quite nicely. Sometimes when it rained, I'd sit here and draw, listening to the soothing patter of the drops against the window...almost like the sky was crying. It cried outside, splattering the window with flecks of rain, while I cried inside, on the other side of the glass, tears streaking down my cheeks.

The storms seemed, these days, to reflect my nature more accurately than the horribly contrasting nickname I'd been christened with so long ago. _Sunshine. _Warm. Bright. _Cheerful. _Which was all fine and good, until the storm clouds rolled in, and then there was nothing but desolate gray, empty and cold.

Storms, I noticed, always seemed to start off as a light breeze, no hint of danger, of impending disaster...but the chill would inevitably start to sink in, and the clouds would darken and then suddenly everything was falling apart, rain crashing down, thunder rumbling, lightening striking...and then you realized the teasing rays of sunlight were all just an illusion. Something you hold onto until it's too late, and then you're stuck out in the storm.

Absently, I traced my pencil across the paper of my sketchbook, recognizing the figure on the page almost as soon as it began to take form. Brian.

My chest filled with an ache powerful enough to force out a few more tears. He was trying so hard. Giving everything he could give, for me. To help me. To heal me. And all I did was make things hard for him. If only he could understand what this _felt _like...maybe he would understand why I couldn't let him in the way he wanted me to.

Or maybe...fuck, maybe _I _was the one who didn't understand. Maybe he was right, and I was making this harder than it had to be. Maybe it would help to talk. Maybe I wouldn't have to fucking _hurt_ so much.

My stomach gave a nervous flip at the thought of what inevitably awaited me tomorrow morning. Monday.

I wouldn't talk to a therapist. I wouldn't. No matter what he said, I would not be spilling the details of the darkest, most horrifying ordeal of my life with some stranger, with their little clipboard, and their stupid fucking degree, and their prying fucking questions they had no right to expect an answer to.

I wouldn't do it. Couldn't do it.

Okay, so I couldn't talk to a therapist...but suppose I really did want to talk to Brian? What would I say? How would I even begin?

I'd begin at the beginning, I supposed.

So, what, did I just tell Brian I wanted to talk to him, sit him down and start unraveling? What if he couldn't take it? What if _I _couldn't take it?

Of course, I knew the answer to that. He'd be there. Unquestionably, he'd be right there beside me, listening to every word, and holding me when I couldn't go on.

I felt shaky and jittery inside at just the thought of recounting it to him, reliving it one more time than I had to, one single time more than my mind and body forced me to. But...what if he was right? Well, I _knew _he was right. My way wasn't working. My fucking dream had just proved that, yet again. Like I needed anymore evidence. If I was willing to give his way a try...could it really help? Was there a possibility of that? Every instinct in me craved for relief. Anything to stop hurting, and yet...every time he got close, every time there was the possibility of more pain to deal with...my immediate reaction was to shut down. Close off. Whatever. Just lock it away and push it down deep where I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore.

Which instinct would win?

So...it was decided...no therapy. Whatever Brian said to me tomorrow, no matter how many times he insisted, no matter how frustrated he got...no therapy. I couldn't handle that. But...maybe I could handle Brian. Just him.

_Put it into words, Justin..._I urged myself..._just say it. _So amazingly simple. So incredibly complicated.

How does someone take an experience like that, all the raw pain and clashing emotions and terrifying moments and cruel voices and wild fear and all of everything...and translate it into something someone else can comprehend? There were large portions of it I didn't even remember. Things didn't quite add up in my head from one moment to the next, which made it almost certain I'd only been conscious part of the time. How could I describe my fragmented memory? All the bits and pieces, the vague recollections...how could either one of us handle the pain tied in with them?

I sighed, wiping at the wetness pooling in my eyes, and once again pushed the thoughts from my mind as completely as possible, concentrating instead on getting Brian's eyes the right shade of intensity.


	15. Free

**A/N: Um, well I finally got the next chapter done :) (Yeah, I know, _finally.)_ But this one is extra-long, so hopefully it'll help make up for the three week wait. :) **

**~Brian~**

I hated this.

I hated having to watch him go through this hell. I hated knowing that I couldn't even imagine the horrors inside his head. I hated that I could never make the pathetic excuses for human beings who did this to him bleed enough for the pain they'd caused.

And I hated that I was so helpless in it all.

I woke up and he wasn't beside me. My first reaction was muddled confusion, my second, curiosity, and my third—panic.

Suddenly very much awake, I threw back the covers, ignoring the uncomfortable gust of cool air that hit me, and began a hasty search of the loft. Despite the fact my brain was still adjusting to its own sudden alertness, the significance of the day had not gone unnoticed by me.

_Monday. _

I'd been dreading it all weekend. I'd made an appointment for Justin with a therapist, despite all his resolute protesting, and I had every intention of getting him there. I'd known all along that it wouldn't be easy, that it would be a fight, but what if he'd woken up before me and run off or something? Shit, this was not good...not good at all.

I poked my head inside the bathroom first, but to no avail. I almost went in to check the trashcan, where I'd found the crumpled-up sketch he'd done of his own lifeless body that had resulted in me scheduling the appointment in the first place, but decided against it. I needed to find him first. Where the fuck could he be?

I all but tripped down the steps in my panicky haste, and swore with relief when I straightened up and caught sight of a mop of blond hair peeking over the arm of the couch. Had he slept out here? He'd been next to me when I'd gone to bed, and I thought he'd fallen asleep—he must have woken up and come out here, for whatever reason. He looked smaller than ever, curled up on the narrow cushions.

"Justin," I said, shaking his shoulder gently. I hated to wake him, especially when he looked so at peace, for once, but we couldn't be late for our appointment. And we _were _going, no matter what it took. "Wake up, Sunshine..."

He mumbled a little and tried to roll over. I suppressed a small smile at the scrunched up face, the tousled hair. If we'd had more time, I might have sat there a little longer and enjoyed simply gazing at the unusually unperturbed expression on his face. "Justin, come on, wake up."

"What?" he asked blearily, his eyelids opening a crack to reveal slivers of sleep-clouded blue.

"Time to get up. We have our appointment in an hour." Typically, an hour would be more than enough time for us to get ready and go, but I was including the inevitable fight it would take to get him there in my scheduling. I wasn't sure how long it would take to convince him to go; the last time I'd spoken to him about it, he had been just as resolved in his decision as I was in mine.

"What?" he repeated, sitting up a little, propped up on his elbows. I resisted the urge to run my fingers affectionately through his disheveled strands of blond, or do something incredibly lesbionic like kiss his nose, which he was currently wrinkling in confusion. Though he usually allowed our chaste kisses now, and most likely would have allowed—even appreciated—the simple touches I refrained from, I couldn't allow myself even the smallest chink in the metaphorical armor I'd adorned especially for today. If he started crying or pleading with me not to make him go, it would be hard enough to resist giving in, without allowing myself to slip under his influence at this point.

"Our appointment with the therapist. It's in an hour. You need to get ready," I reminded him. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes, looking so lost and confused as to where he was and what was going on, that I felt compelled to ask him.

"Why'd you come out here? Did you wake up?" Shit, I really hoped he hadn't had a nightmare...I'd been so fucking exhausted, I hadn't heard a thing. The idea of him sitting out here, crying alone in the dark while I slept soundly in the next room, was not one I wanted to entertain.

"Yeah, um...I couldn't sleep," he mumbled. I wondered if this was the truth, or if he was just saying it so I wouldn't feel like a shit for not being there to comfort him. I _needed _to be there to comfort him, though at the moment, I couldn't have said if it was more for my reassurance or his.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

He shrugged. "No reason to."

I nodded absently, hoping this was the case, and let my eyes wander to the window, outside of which the sky was an intimidating gray, and the beginnings of a storm were stirring threateningly. It figured, on a day like this. My eyes narrowed at the slender sketchpad on the floor in front of the window.

"Were you drawing?"

"Um...yeah," he admitted. "Trying, anyway."

"Can I see?"

He hesitated visibly, but nodded. My heart pounded against my chest as I picked up the little book and flipped it open, fearful of what I might find. The anxiety faded almost immediately.

"They're good," I said, almost smiling in relief at the half completed sketch of myself—the most recent drawing. The eyes almost looked alive against the sheet of paper. I half expected them to blink.

He shrugged again. "I haven't been able to finish most of them," he admitted.

There were, I noticed, several attempts, including the one I was guessing he'd done last night, that he'd apparently given up on, all featuring my head and bare chest...but uncompleted drawings of me were better than ones of his corpse, any day. I set the book aside and turned back to him, my relief dissipating on the spot as I looked at him. "You need to get ready," I repeated.

"For what?" he asked, frowning, though I'd just reminded him of the appointment mere minutes previously.

"Our appointment."

"I'm not going to see the shrink, Brian."

He spoke calmly, firmly, completely convinced of what he was saying. I sighed, having anticipated this attitude. When had Justin _ever_ given up, once he'd come to a decision? It was, after all, half the reason we were together in the first place, was it not? "Well, it isn't optional. Get dressed. We're leaving in twenty minutes." The therapist's office was just over fifteen minutes away, but I was wondered if a strict twenty-minute time limit might spark him into activity.

I stood up, leaving him on the couch, and marched back into the bedroom to get dressed. Ten minutes later, having brushed my teeth, fixed my hair, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt, I returned to the living room to find that he hadn't moved an inch. "Justin, get up. You're going today."

"I'm not," he replied coolly.

"Yes, you are. Get up and get ready. I'll fix you some breakfast."

"You can't tell me what to do. I don't want to go...you can't make me."

I sighed again. How the fuck was I supposed to drag an unwilling Justin to therapy?

"Justin...you need to do this, okay?" I said softly, finally giving into temptation and reaching out to stroke his hair lightly. It was longer than it had been in the entire time I'd known him, and if things had been different, I knew I would have enjoyed twisting my fingers in it in much more pleasurable circumstances.

"Look, if it wasn't necessary, I wouldn't push it. But you need help, Sunshine...you need to talk to someone." He refused to look at me, but I caught the glint of tears in his eyes nonetheless, and tried to shrug off the uncomfortable sensation of my heartstrings being tugged at. "I'll be with you the whole time, I promise. But you have to get ready and go now."

"I can't," he replied, his voice shaking, but his resolve apparently as uncompromising as ever.

"Why can't you?" I prompted him. He didn't answer, but blinked a little more rapidly than strictly necessary. Inwardly, I moaned. Why did he have to cry? This was already hard enough, without him making everything worse by crying and looking so fucking miserable and broken like he was. I was trying to be the strong one, the clearheaded one that could take care of both of us...he was not helping things with his tears. Who ever would have guessed that my weakness would be tiny drops of salty liquid?

Tiny drops of anguish, shed by my Sunshine.

I knelt down beside him; he didn't even glance at me. "Justin, look...you've got to do this, all right? You have to...you can't keep living the way you are now. Just—just get up and fucking come with me." He couldn't keep living like this. _I _couldn't continue to watch him live like this. As much pain as he was in—awake, asleep, all the _fucking _time—it killed _me_ to have to see him hurting so much. The dull sadness in his eyes, the tears every night...if he was dying from the pain of this, then I was dying right along with him. _Just get the fuck up, Justin...help me help you...._

I reached up to grasp his hand in mine. It was cold, and I suddenly realized he had no blanket with him out here, despite the chill of the weather. My heart sank a few notches lower in my stomach. "Why don't you take a hot shower?" I suggested.

He didn't move. Honestly, the way he was just staring ahead, so motionless...it was quite disturbing. It reminded me forcibly of one of the drawings I'd seen in particular, in the sketchbook I'd thrown out nearly two weeks ago, and I tried to shake the image from my mind.

The fact that I couldn't was precisely the reason why he needed to get up off the couch and go talk to someone. This wasn't living, what he was doing. This was existing. Miserably, I might add. He still wanted to die—and the most terrifying part was that he was already halfway there.

"Justin..." I tried again. But what else could I say? Over the last few days, I'd tried to reason with him, practically begged him to accompany me, and told him point blank that he was going, whether he wanted to or not. Nothing had worked. Short of throwing him over my shoulder and physically dragging him down to the therapist's office, I didn't see what else I could do.

I squeezed his frozen hand in mine, pressing my lips to it. I raised an eyebrow in surprise when his eyes shifted from the window over my shoulder to my face. "Come with me," I whispered, letting my warm breath ghost over his chilled fist, clenched so tightly within mine.

He shook his head a fraction of an inch to each side. At least he was moving a little...him staring straight ahead at nothing, not moving at all, was fucking creepy.

"I—I had a nightmare last night," he said, his voice broken, but suddenly the most important thing I'd ever heard. I latched onto it, desperate to keep it alive and real and speaking. He swallowed hard, as though bracing himself for what was coming next, and shifted his eyes away from me again. His hand clenched tighter around mine, and though I gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze back, my heart had dropped right out of my chest.

"You did?" I asked. Fuck. Exactly what I'd been afraid of. He'd been out here crying alone.

He nodded, still not looking at me; his eyes had taken on a glazed-over look, as though his mind was currently somewhere else entirely. Rather selfishly, I didn't want to know where that place was.

"What was it about?" I asked routinely.

My heart skipped a beat or two in shock when he actually answered.

"I was...in the room."

My eyes widened, hardly able to believe that he'd volunteered information with so little prompting. His voice was wavery with barely controlled tears, but still...it was something. "The room? What—" But then I got it. Of course. The room where it had all happened. The room where he'd been raped.

"And then...you were there." He spoke so quietly, I had to lean forward to hear him. His gaze was still fixed steadily on the window behind me, but shit, he was_ talking _to me...talking _willingly... _

"I was?"

"Yeah. And...you hugged me. And I asked you to take me home, but you...you turned into...into _him."_

A single glassy tear fell from his eye, but he didn't even seem to notice. He was somewhere unreachable—I wondered if he was even aware that he was saying these things out loud. I wanted to ask who 'him' was...Sap, or one of the others, maybe even Hobbes...but I didn't want to take a chance of scaring him back into silence.

But then suddenly, he went quiet anyway.

"Then what?" I asked gently. But his jaw was locked tight, leaving no possibility of so much as a stream of air from slipping out.

Fuck.

**~Justin~**

_Say it...fucking _say _it...just tell him..._

But nothing was coming out. Why was this so hard? Why couldn't I just tell him? It was inside my head...why couldn't I convert it into words and fucking _say _it? It was just a dream...not even real...why couldn't I tell him about something that wasn't even real?

_Say it...just tell him what happened...how he was gone, and Sap was there, kissing you and holding you down so he could..._

No.

No, I couldn't. My throat was dry and my mind was spinning and I just couldn't.

He sighed, his shoulders sagging...he looked so exhausted, though I'd gotten even less sleep than he had. I hadn't wanted to take the chance of waking him up last night by climbing back into bed, so I'd just left my sketchpad on the floor and curled up on the couch, which had looked relatively inviting, if a bit chilly. Besides, I'd had a lot to think about, and it was easier to find clarity out there alone, staring out at the cloudy sky, than in bed next to him, where I knew I'd want nothing more than to curl into his body and give into exhaustion.

I knew he wouldn't give up on the therapy idea. He was as determined to get me there as I was determined not to go, and he wasn't backing down. But neither was I.

"Come on, Justin. We're going to be late if you don't hurry," he said finally. He stood up, not letting go of my hand, and attempted to pull me to my feet. The move snapped me out of the silent war that was raging inside my head. _Tell him, tell him, tell him..._

"No." I wasn't sure if the word was a response to his order to get up and get ready, or to the racing thoughts inside my own mind.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, as though praying for patience. "Justin, if we miss this appointment, I'm calling someone to come here and talk instead."

_What_? "You can't," I said quietly. The idea of some shrink in the loft, in our space, trying to force me into this inside my own home was....

"I can and I will. So get up. Please, Justin...come on," he added. He was essentially begging me to go, but I'd made my decision, and I planned to stand by it. Well, technically, I'd made two decisions...I would not be talking to a shrink. That was decision number one, and I was not budging on it no matter what he had to say. Decision number two was that I was going to _try_ to talk to Brian.

And I _was_ trying. Unfortunately, it had been a lot easier to decide on it last night than it was to actually do it now.

_Come on...just fucking say it...tell him...just get it out...better to tell_ him _than some fucking therapist, right? Just get it _over _with..._

Why couldn't I force these words out? I wanted this whole thing gone from my mind, right? What better way than this? What _other _way than this? Just let the pain evolve into sentences. That was all.

It was too much.

"Justin." The sound of Brian's voice, growing more urgent by the minute, made me look up at him. "Come on. You have to do this."

"I don't want to."

"I know. But you have to. So come on."

"I _said_ I don't want to," I repeated forcefully. I repressed a shudder. They were the exact same words I'd spoken to Sap that night. He hadn't cared, either. Didn't anyone give a damn what I wanted? Didn't I have a choice where my own life was concerned?

Another heavy sigh from Brian's direction. "And I said get up, Justin."

_I _said,_ get in the swing, you little asshole...._

Well, what about what _I _had to say?

"I'll be with you, all right? I promise. Just...come on, Justin."

_We won't hurt you...we promise. Come on, Justin...._

"No!" I yelled at both of them, Brian and Him, and rolled back over, burying my face in the couch.

An hour later, and I still hadn't moved.

**~Brian~**

Okay, so I wasn't terribly surprised when he refused to get up and go to therapy. I'd been anticipating the struggle, but it still meant we were no better off than we were before. Back to him silently fighting his own internal battle and constantly shutting me out of it. Back to both of us growing nearer and nearer to a complete mental breakdown from it all. Back to me wanting to scream and rip Sap's throat out and tear the memory from Justin's mind. Back to both of us dying inside, now that the small flicker of hope that had begun to burn had been extinguished.

After another half an hour of him not moving an inch on the couch, I was forced to call the therapist's office and cancel our appointment. I had really thought I would be able to get him to go. It would be difficult, I'd expected as much...but I thought if I made him realize how important it was, he would find it in himself to do it. But he didn't want to realize it. Nothing I said could convince him.

So where did that leave us?

It left him standing on the edge of everything again. I was still reaching out to him, still begging him to take my hand so that I could pull him back over to this side, to healing, to safety. But he was more determined to step off the ledge into the darkness, let himself fall away. They had practically led him there...Sap and Hobbes and the others. Practically forced him to that ledge, and every day, every night, every second...they were pushing him forward. Pushing him to take that last step into nothingness.

I thought about maybe giving that one former trick of mine a call—the one I'd seen for therapeutic advice after Justin had been bashed. What had he told me then...to _trigger his memory _or something? Trigger his memory, get him to feel the pain. The problem was, he _did _remember this time. He remembered enough, anyway. But I did wonder if it would take the same concept now. Get him to really feel it. Get him to bleed...even more than he was already.

Could I do that? Could I seriously do that to him...force to him to relive his rape?

If I could, somehow, find the heartlessness within myself required for the job, _how _would I do it? How could I possibly provoke him into feeling it all again? What was I supposed to say to him?

He had tried talking to me. He'd tried on his own, without me prying it out of him, word by word. He shut down half way through, of course, but he'd _tried..._how could I get more from him? What did I have to do? What did I do after he was bashed?

I supposed the turning point after the bashing had been Gus's birthday party. The bat. The memory. That night...the night that had—for me, at least—cemented his presence in my life. Moving so slowly inside him, caressing his skin with such care...it had been the first time we'd had sex that I'd really accepted that he was so much more than another fuck. That, no matter what I tried to pretend, our whatever-the-hell we had was mutual. That I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

If only it could be so easy this time.

But fuck, we hadn't even had a real kiss in months. There were times I thought I'd forgotten what he tasted like. What I would do to be able to touch him like I used to...let my tongue ghost over his lips, absorbing his sweet flavor...hearing him gasp with pleasure above me as I found all the right places...lapping up beads of perspiration, sweeping my tongue across his delicious skin...

But I couldn't.

I couldn't even stare at him when he got out of the shower. I couldn't come up behind him and tilt his head back to plunge my tongue into his mouth. I couldn't wake him up in the mornings with wet kisses down his chest. I couldn't seize his hips and pull myself impossibly deeper inside him because it just felt so damn good to be with him like that. I couldn't run my hand down the smooth skin of his back after we had sex. I couldn't even mention sex. Didn't want him to get the wrong idea. Nothing to pressure him. Didn't want him pushing himself too far.

But I wanted_ him._

Over two months. It had been over two months since the last time I'd had sex with him. Barely kissing, hardly touching him at all since then.

I thought I would be frustrated. I _should _be frustrated. I never would have dreamed of pressuring him into something he wasn't ready for, but I thought it would be harder than this. But instead...it just _hurt._ It hurt to know that he couldn't bear to be touched, even by me.

I'd been sure that I would be going crazy, constantly needing to go out to get what he couldn't give me. And I _had _gone out, just like I'd promised myself I would...especially now that he stayed at his mother's and Daphne's during the day. Once or twice a week, I'd head somewhere after work, and he'd stay with his mom or his best friend until I came back just a little later than usual to pick him up.

Whatever pleasure I manged to achieve, minimal as it was nowadays, was forgotten the second his face popped into my mind again. Sometimes—most times—it happened before I even found my release, and it would be the thought of him that would bring me over the edge. Gallingly, most of the self-important idiots that were my tricks seemed to think it was their own incomparable skills that were to thank. Though I longed to wipe the smug grins off their faces with the truth, of course I couldn't inform them—however honestly—that the thought of Justin got me harder than their pitiful attempts at blow-jobs.

It was all incredibly frustrating. Once or twice a week—just to mentally fuck _him. _What the hell?

Somehow, it was worse knowing the _reason _behind our lack of a sex life, than the lack of sex itself.

It was...unsettling. Terrifying, that it had come to this—though I'd actively fought to keep the thought from ever forming—that somewhere along the line I had started to think of him ahead of myself. I couldn't ever remember doing that for someone. Most of the time, there had been no one worthy of the honor in my mind—and even when there was, there had always been something that just hadn't clicked. My instinct to serve myself first had always overpowered everything else. I was ridiculously unnerved by the fact that Justin seemed to be changing that, little by little.

Of course I cared about him. A lot. A _fucking _lot. But seeing his face instead of Nameless Hot Trick #4958, being more concerned about whether he was okay than going out and being _myself, _King of Liberty Avenue...that was fucked up. And it was even _more _fucked up that I couldn't even find it in myself to _mind. _

Everything had changed since the night of that party. Physically, sexually, emotionally...nothing had remained the same between the two of us, including the way I felt about him. I had expected things to change, even—though I hated to admit it—my feelings for him. It was only natural, wasn't it? But they hadn't swayed the way I'd been fearing. They weren't fading. They weren't weakening, now that we didn't have the sexual connection that had been strengthening since the first time we'd met. The feelings weren't fucking _going away _like they were supposed to.

But things _had_ changed, there was no denying that.

I cared _more._

**~Justin~**

I won.

For the first time in I can't even remember how long, I won a fight with Brian.

Well, okay, I rolled over and refused to move off the couch, but that can still be counted as winning. I had gotten my way. No therapy. No painful words being torn from my throat. No forcing me into things I didn't want to do. It felt—empowering—to get my way in something. To feel like I had a say in it.

Brian hadn't given up on the idea, I was sure of that. He was the most stubborn fucker I'd ever met...one failed attempt would not be the end of it. It would be ridiculous to assume it was.

I laid there for well over an hour, my head buried in the couch cushion, trying to will myself to speak, to call Brian back to me and tell him everything. He would be all too willing to listen, he'd made that clear enough. All I had to do was open my mouth and ask him to come over here. He would be at my side in an instant, and then I would ask him to sit down and he would automatically reach out to wrap an arm around me the way he always did, I would say that I needed to tell him some things and he'd hold me and wipe my tears away while I relived the ordeal in my head.

But my mouth wouldn't open. Why couldn't Brian fucking have mind-reading powers? It would be easier than attempting to force the words out like this, when they simply couldn't seem to find their way

from my brain to my lips...when they hid and cowered and suffocated themselves inside my throat.

Maybe it would be easier if _I _just suffocated.

I shook the thought from my mind, before it could end up on another sheet of paper in my sketchbook. Those fucking drawings were what had gotten me into this therapy mess in the first place.

Eventually, Brian came back in the living room to inform me in a restricted tone that he had canceled our appointment and order me to come eat some breakfast. I refused that too. I didn't want to eat. Food would assist in keeping me alive. I didn't want that either.

So I sat and entertained my thoughts of mind-reading powers and suffocating words and whatever the fuck else occurred to me. None of it was good. Brian would kill me himself if he knew I was imagining things like death and dying and escape and relief. I wondered, with an ache in my heart too strong for the musings to be considered strict curiosity...what dying felt like. It couldn't be _too_ painful. I was living through this hell, wasn't I? Nothing could be worse. Any other type of pain would be a welcome distraction.

If only I had saved that razor blade.

I couldn't talk. I couldn't heal. I couldn't forget them. I couldn't get over this. What good was I to anyone, including myself? I couldn't be happy, I couldn't make Brian happy, I couldn't draw the way I wanted, I couldn't even sleep without my own memories torturing me...what the fuck was the purpose of continuing life like this? I hated everything about it. I truly hated my life.

No, I didn't. That was a lie.

I hated myself.

Useless and stupid and disgusting and weak. Pitiful and fucked up and emotional...a fucking slut who offered his body up to half a dozen guys in a swing. Filthy. Worthless.

I had no idea it was possible to hate someone so much.

I really wished I would have held on to that razor blade.

~.~.~.

If Brian had really intended to invite a shrink over to talk to me, he showed no signs of carrying out his threat as the week wore on. Three days after his failed attempt to take me to therapy, the loft remained my safe haven, untouchable and ours. Maybe Brian knew that was what it was to me, and that was why he hadn't carried out his promise. I didn't know. I didn't bring it up.

He didn't so much as raise an eyebrow when I shuffled into the kitchen one morning, one of his shirts hanging off my considerably smaller shoulders. I liked wearing his clothes—they were big and comfortable and they smelled like him. It was almost as good as having his arms around me all day long. He didn't seem to mind me wearing his stuff, for which I was grateful. Trying not to show my displeasure at the fact that he had once again prepared my breakfast, which was waiting for me on the table, I sat down and picked up my fork, trying to wrap his over-sized T-shirt tighter around my body.

I had finally run out of all my medicine, or he would have set that out for me, too. I'd been rather relieved to finally be done with the meds, even though I still had several scheduled check-ups around the corner, including a few more blood tests. A little less than four months, and we would know for sure if—if I had It.

He didn't sit down across from me like usual, but instead remained standing, leaning against the counter. His eyes were distant, and whatever he was thinking about, it was making the corners of his lips turn down in a subtle frown.

"Aren't you eating?" I prompted after a few silent moments. His head jerked up, as though he'd forgotten I was there. He let out a low breath, and nodded, taking his usual seat. I shoved another fork-full of pancake in my mouth, eager to be finished with the nuisance that was breakfast, but kept one eye on him as he cut his own pancake into pieces with unnecessary force.

"Are you okay?" I asked. He didn't look up.

"Fine," he answered crisply, stabbing a bite of his breakfast.

I stared down at the syrupy mess on my own plate. Judging by his tone, his assurance that he was 'fine' was complete bullshit. What could possibly be wrong now? Had I done something? Was he pissed at me for forcing him to cancel our appointment? That had been days ago, but if it was the reason, I knew I probably deserved his frustration. I was annoyed with myself for not being able to open my mouth...surely he was too.

_Say it say it say it....tell him, Justin, tell him...._

_Shut UP. Don't say it. Don't say anything. Keep it to yourself, he shouldn't have to hear it...you shouldn't have to _say_ it...just keep it inside...._

"So how are things at work?" I asked, trying to keep it casual, but the underlying uncertainty in my voice gave me away.

Naturally, he saw through me, and sighed, ignoring the pointless question. Whatever it was that was bothering him, he had already given up trying to keep it from me, it seemed. Brian never was one to beat around the bush when it came to things people didn't want to hear. "Justin, I've got to tell you something," he admitted grimly.

Every fear I'd been repressing over the last few weeks flashed through my mind with dizzying speed. My stomach immediately seemed to implode, and my heart skipped a couple of beats. Whatever this was, I wasn't going to like it.

_He's making you leave...he hates you now...you're no good to him like this....he's lost interest...._

The poisonous whispers were endless.

_How could you let this happen, you idiot? _

What was I going to do now?

I took a deep breath, setting my fork down, and gave him my full attention. Maybe it wasn't what I was thinking. Maybe it was something else entirely. Maybe...

_Shut up and listen. _

I obeyed the voice of reason in my head, doing my best to sit calmly and absorb whatever he was about to tell me.

"It's about...it's about Sap, Justin," he said uncomfortably. My eyes widened. I barely had time to process this before he was speaking again. "You know the...the other guy, the dancer, the one who—"

"The other guy he raped," I offered, surprised at the acid in my tone, even while I was in such a state of shocked relief as this. Sap. This was about Sap, not me and Brian. He wasn't making me go anywhere. God, I was paranoid. Brian brings up bad news, and I immediately think abandonment?

Just another part of my life to hate, I supposed. One more thing to despise about myself, that I was so endlessly clingy and needy and scared.

"What about him?"

He didn't want to answer. His jaw was clamped so tightly, the muscles were visibly strained, and he refused to meet my eyes, focusing instead on some invisible point over my left shoulder.

"Remember...how he was pressing charges?" Brian prompted.

I nodded, waiting for more, until the words truly sunk in. "Wait..._was _pressing charges?" My voice rose at least an octave in horrified surprise.

Brian swallowed hard, still looking at something I couldn't see over my shoulder. "Yeah, he...he dropped them, Justin." He delivered the blow gently. It didn't help.

It was silent for one long, gut-wrenching moment while the implications of this twisted themselves around my brain.

He had dropped the charges. Sap was not getting convicted. He would not suffer for the pain and trauma he had caused his victims. He was walking away.

My rapist was a free man.

"Justin..." Brian whispered. It was my turn to avoid his eyes, now, as mine had suddenly glossed over with tears as I stared at my half-eaten breakfast. "Look, it doesn't necessarily mean he'll be able to walk away from this."

"What?" I asked, too horror-struck at the idea of Sapperstein skulking around the city—not a blemish on his conscience for what he had done—to put together what Brian was saying.

"There's...at least one other person with the power to press charges," he said quietly, and suddenly it all snapped together in my head.

"I can't," I said immediately. That would involve the police, wouldn't it? I'd have to talk to them, tell them what happened. I'd have to describe it. I couldn't even do that with my own boyfriend, so how could I possibly...? "I can't do it."

Brian nodded, looking as though he had expected this. "Okay," he accepted, then hesitated. "Are you all right?"

Of course, any answer I gave would be considered in a relative manner, I knew that, but I still couldn't honestly say 'yes.' I wasn't okay. I was very, very far from it. Gary Sapperstein was walking away from justice without a scratch. Just like Chris Hobbes had. They'd both just got up from it all and dusted themselves off as though nothing had ever happened. Both were free to cause pain and suffering and never have to pay for it. Both were permitted to do as they pleased without consequences.

"How long...have you known?" I asked Brian quietly, my mind still reeling.

"I just found out yesterday. I wasn't sure how to tell you," he replied uneasily, looking hesitant to so much as fucking breathe too loudly—as though I was one of those great towers made entirely of playing cards stacked on top of one another, thrown off balance by a simple touch.

I nodded, pushing the remainder of my breakfast away. I couldn't stomach it right now.

So it was back to this. Back to feeling unaccountably wounded by the unfairness of life itself—precisely the way I had felt after Hobbes's trial. I'd _known _it would happen—that they would let him off easy for bashing the gay freak—but it still hurt to feel like the world was letting you down. And now, once again, justice had fallen short. Sap was just...walking away. Even indirectly involved as I had been in that trial, it had felt like hope to me.

And now it was crushed. Smothered. Smeared against the concrete of reality, not unlike how my fucking brains had been splattered against the cement of that parking garage. Not for the first time since it had happened, I wished Chris had finished the job. I wished he'd have won.

If only Brian hadn't stepped in with Hobbes back then,I wouldn't have to be dealing with all this _now._ It would have been better that way, I was sure. A nanosecond of pain and then sweet nothingness. When I considered the drawn-out assault I'd been subjected to at that party, and this endless torture that had become my life—the split-second attack in the parking garage seemed like I'd been getting it easy. Why couldn't that have killed me? Instead, I was being forced to drag through the days, wishing for my own discontinued existence, dying in a much slower, more agonizing way. How was that fair?

Brian, for once, seemed to take my silence as a clue that I didn't feel like talking. He didn't badger me about finishing my breakfast, and didn't say a word to me as he cleaned up and we headed out for the day.

Chances were, I wouldn't have answered anyway.

~.~

It was two in the morning. I was exhausted. And very much awake.

Brian and I had gone to bed over an hour ago, but still I laid there, fully conscious. Overactive minds did not grant sleep easily, even to heavily fatigued bodies. And my mind had plenty to keep it busy.

_He was free. _

Sap was free. Allowed to walk the streets, unaffected, never knowing or caring about the pain he'd caused. He was allowed to laugh at a simple joke, when I hadn't smiled in weeks. Allowed to sleep peacefully, when my own memories tormented me nightly. Allowed to hurt me. Allowed to take my life away, while he remained alive and well, not a hint of my agony touching him.

It had been horrible that first month after the party, thinking no one would ever know the things that Sap had done...knowing he would never have to pay for it. So when Brian had told me that it had happened to someone else, that they were actually _pressing charges..._it had been a horrifying relief. Horrifying, because I knew what it felt like to have gone through torture of the type that Sap and his friends liked to inflict on their victims, and I felt an overwhelming sense of regret that someone else had had to feel that kind of pain. But relief—wonderful, staggering relief because...Sap was going to pay. He was going to suffer for it, the way he deserved to.

It hadn't even been about me, of course—the other dancer pressing charges. It had been about him...the one who had come forward, who had stood up for himself, who had tried to make sure that Sap paid for what he'd done. But still it felt like, if Sap was indeed forced to compensate for his crime, it would have been a victory for me, too. I would have won just as much out of it. It would have been justice for anyone Sap had ever hurt that way.

I realized suddenly that I'd never even learned his name—the other victim. Or at least, the one other victim I knew for sure about. It seemed odd, right then. Though I had no idea who he was, if I'd met him before during my stint at Babylon or if he was a faceless stranger...it had almost felt like I'd known him personally. He had been through the same thing I had. Maybe on a different night, maybe with a few different people involved, but he had gone through the same torture that I had experienced. He_ understood..._whoever he was. That was something I couldn't even say about Brian.

I wondered continuously, with no solid answer in sight, why he'd dropped the charges. Why now? Why at _all? _He'd already come forward, spoken to the police and everything...what had changed?

Of course, I could think of a few dozen things that could have changed his mind. Things like what were preventing _me_ from speaking up in the first place.

Fear. Shame. Pain.

Couldn't talk. Couldn't deal. Couldn't heal.

Maybe, as the court date drew nearer, the guy had panicked. Decided he couldn't do it after all. Maybe he just wanted to put it all behind him. Maybe...maybe he was afraid he just wouldn't be able to force the words out. Maybe he didn't want to try.

I didn't blame him. I didn't want to talk about it either, after all. Though it made me sick to think that Sapperstein could happily eat and sleep and breathe and live without any of this hanging over his head, I couldn't find the strength to do anything about it. It was just the way things were going to have to be. It sucked, yes, but that was how it worked—like the predator and the prey. Wasn't that life? The predator took what he wanted, while the prey lost everything.

The derisive voice inside my head noted bitterly that this wasn't the fucking animal channel. True, the situation wasn't quite the same as a cat and mouse game, but wasn't it the same concept? The weak got hurt when they failed to defend themselves. The weak lost. The strong took advantage and claimed what they wanted—sometimes for no other reason than that they _could._

I was weak. I'd failed to take care of myself. And Sapperstein—the predator—had gotten what he wanted, hadn't he? He'd gotten me. He'd gotten my body. He'd gotten my mind. He'd gotten my dreams. He'd gotten my health. Was there any part of me he hadn't claimed as his own? He had even taken Brian, in some ways. In most ways.

Nothing truly felt like_ mine_ anymore. My mind had been heavily under their influence since that night. My dreams had become my own personal horror movies. My life wasn't mine. Sex wasn't mine. My own _body _wasn't mine. How could it be? They'd practically rented it out to whoever the fuck wanted it. Tied me up and let everyone have their way with me, like I was some kind of toy to be handed around at their leisure.

A worthless sex toy. Inhuman. An object. That was all I had been to them. Maybe all I was period, contrary to what Brian would insist.

Suddenly tired of lying there staring at the ceiling while Brian slept, undisturbed, beside me, I quietly climbed from the bed and crept down to the living room. Again. I could quite easily see this becoming a nightly ritual, at least during those times when I couldn't sleep. And there were plenty. I think part of it was that I was afraid to fall asleep. Afraid to wind up back at that party. I didn't want to relive it. Why would I want to experience the worst night of my life even one more time than I had to?

All those times I tried to recall the night of my prom...the dance, the kiss...and I never could. It was just empty. Gone, like someone had come in and chiseled away whatever was holding it there in my mind. I wished they could take the party out, too. I'd rather have a gaping hole there instead of the memories haunting me.

I took up my position at the window, sketchpad already in hand. My pencil remained poised above the paper, and try as I might, I couldn't stop the varied mix of sounds and images from rushing forth, obscuring the vision of Brian I'd had imprinted in my mind.

Voices. Faces. Touches. Fear. Pain. Violation. The endless film reel that I couldn't pause. The strip of memories that never stopped playing.

Sap's smirk. The swing growing closer and closer. Utter helplessness. So many hands. So many faces. So many voices.

The blur of pain began to break down. My inner eye picked apart the images, individual faces sneering at me from behind my closed eyelids.

"_Untie his hands...I want him to fight. More fun that way." _

Right. I remembered that one. The guy who had had me untied, just to hold my wrists down himself, getting off on the sight of my frantic struggling. It had been part of the thrill for him.

The sharp angle of the man's face seemed to trace itself onto the paper of my sketchpad, his eyes cruel and dancing with amusement, his lips twisted into a grin as he watched me struggle beneath him.

"_Move over, I want to try him out. Let's see how much the little fuck can take." _

I remembered him too. Dark hair. Muscular face. Large nose. The first one who had insisted on forcing his tongue down my throat while he was fucking me. I remembered a ridiculous split second of panic over that, in my groggy haze...dimly terrified that Brian would find out I had done the unthinkable and kissed someone, though I hadn't exactly been given a choice. I'd had that guy's disgusting taste in my mouth until—well, until the rest of them decided that my mouth looked rather inviting, and put it to other use.

The second man's face joined the first in my sketch, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, the way I remembered him. His lips had been pouty and full...most likely because he'd been smashing them against mine with enough force to bruise them both. I vaguely remembered trying to bite him...it seemed a pathetically weak attempt to fight now...he had only responded by gripping my jaw so tightly I was sure he was crushing the bone, and forcing my lips apart to accommodate his tongue. I shivered with disgust at the memory.

"_Fuck, you were great. The best I've had all night. I've always had a thing for blonds..." _

I remembered that guy in particular. He had fucked me—raped me—three times. Three miserable times that I remembered, anyway.

"_Just can't get enough of you, blondie..."_

He'd taken his time, drawing out the torture, bringing himself to the edge and then always pulling back. He'd done what he could to make it last...to make me beg for him to stop. He'd apparently considered the fact that he liked me enough to fuck me three times to be some kind of honor. No, not fuck...it was not fucking. It was rape. Right?

I had wondered, more than once in fact...if what they had done could really be considered rape. I had replayed it constantly in my mind, going over every detail. I had said no. I had tried to fight. I had given every sign that I wasn't willing.

But on the other hand, I had still gone to the party. I hadn't fought hard enough to get away. I had gotten myself into that situation. Did my stupidity counteract the fact that I'd said no? It shouldn't, but...I couldn't ignore the fact that I had been repeatedly, consistently idiotic during the entire length of my employment at Babylon. I'd said no, I'd tried to fight, I'd done all I could to get away...that meant it was rape, right? No matter how incredibly stupid and naive I had been through it all—no matter how much I'd been asking for it—I had said no.

There'd been one guy who had seemed to at least know that I didn't want it. His features began to come alive against the paper of my sketchbook. Dirty blond hair, falling into his eyes. Heavy eyebrows. Wide forehead. Crooked teeth he bared whenever he grinned.

I was sure the others knew that I hadn't wanted it, as well, but most of them had been merely indifferent. This guy...it had been almost worse with him. He'd taken his heartlessness to the next level and added insult to injury. He'd rubbed it in my face. They'd all been perfectly aware—or at least they should have been—that what they were doing to me was more than I'd consented to, and it hadn't even slowed them down, but this guy in particular had teased me, taunted me, even more than the others. Laughed at the fact that I'd had no control over what was being done to my own body.

"_You're such a great little fuck...why don't you kiss me back, huh? You want to stop? No, you don't mean that. Yeah, that's it, beg for me now..."_

He'd chuckled after he'd said that. As though the fact that he was forcing himself inside me while I sobbed and pleaded with him to get off of me was a fucking hilarious joke to have a good laugh over. He had been unnecessarily rough, considering I'd been tied up at the time. I had a feeling he'd left most of the fingerprint-shaped bruises on my hips.

"_You don't like this, do you, blond boy? Is that why you're all tied up? We'd let you go if you'd stop trying to hit us...we just want some of that hot ass of yours. It's your own fault we have to do it like this, you know...you're just so delicious...if you'd just cooperate, we wouldn't have to make you..." _

I supposed no one cared when a useless fuck toy protested these things. Why should anyone care what the little slut wanted? Might as well make himself useful. Teach him a lesson. What a brilliant idea, Sap, to show me that I had been an idiot by tying me up and giving me away to all your friends. Way to show the little whore what he was good for.

All these things inside my head. All these memories to torture me, so much pain I held inside, and I couldn't get so much as three words out to Brian. I wondered if spontaneous combustion was possible for a human due to sheer emotional overload. It would be a welcome fate, at this point.

I glared at the faces in my sketchbook. Were they happy now? While I was here, crying and suffering and wanting to die...were they happy? Did they think back to that night and smile at the thought of what they had done to me?

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. But I was beyond that. I was beyond trying to remove it from my life, when it was so clearly a part of it now. I was beyond trying to hold myself together, when my world was so obviously falling apart.

I was done hurting. I was done crying. I was done trying to hold it all inside, where it circled and throbbed and burned me away. I was done being Hobbes's victim, done being Sap's sex toy, done being Brian's charity case. I was done living like this.

I was just done.

**~Brian~**

For the second time in a week, I woke up and Justin wasn't where he was supposed to be. I couldn't be sure what had pulled me from the peaceful depths of unconsciousness, but I couldn't worry about that now. The unease I felt at Justin's absence pushed at the grogginess clinging to my brain, sharpening my awareness in seconds rather than minutes.

I sat up, reaching over to press my palm to his vacated side of the bed. It was cool—he'd been gone for a while. The light wasn't on in the kitchen, or the bathroom, but I checked the latter just in case before hurrying down to the living room.

He wasn't there.

My stomach tried to call my attention to the fact that it felt nauseous, but I ignored it, hastily searching the rest of the loft, before concluding that Justin definitely was not there.

Maybe my churning stomach was tired of being ignored, because my lungs suddenly decided to lend a hand and increase my physical discomfort by refusing to operate properly. My brain, rather than ordering the two of them to sort things out, was instead absorbed in a sick, rapidly spinning moment of terrifying realization, a single thought standing out among all the rest.

Justin was gone.

**~Justin~**

It was windier than I'd expected. Colder, too. But I liked it. The sharp, almost painful discomfort of my skin made me feel alive, somehow, especially compared to the inside of me—deadened with pain.

One foot in front of the other. Inches, feet, yards behind me...

My fingers clenched involuntarily around my sketchbook as I crept closer and closer to the edge of everything. The wind howled louder, stealing my breath away. The chill bit harshly at my exposed bits of skin. I had a shirt and pants on, but no jacket. A mistake, considering the weather.

Finally, I reached my stopping point, and sat down. I stared out over the city below me. Too bright to be a second sky, but little flecks of light from various buildings seemed to adorn it like stars. Between them and the moon, my sketches were lit for me without much problem.

I wasn't sure how long I sat there on the roof of Brian's building, but it was long enough that the stars above my head—the ones that the light below didn't wash out, and the clouds didn't cover—had changed positions in the sky.

Face after face. Memory after memory. Pain and terror and agony beyond anything....

But I felt oddly free. Alive. Out here, with the wind and the fresh air and the view of the city spread out before me—and maybe because I knew what was coming, how it would end, that there would soon be relief from it all—I felt unconstrained, for the first time in too long.

I remembered the one other time I'd done something like this. A few weeks after I'd come to live with Brian after I was bashed, one day when I'd felt particularly furious and suffocated and I was ready to scream at the injustice that was my life, I'd instead found my own little secret escape. Just for a day, I'd been able to evade reality. Almost, anyway. I'd still been having issues with my hand, and it had taken me the entire day to sketch out the buildings and the streets and the skyscrapers from this omniscient viewpoint. But I had done it.

Brian had found me eventually, and though he never said it, I had a feeling I'd worried him a little by disappearing without notice for a whole day. I didn't come back up after that—of course, I could've just told him what I was doing and gone back again—but there had been something about that day that couldn't be replicated. Something free and accomplished and mine. Sometimes you had to remove yourself from everything to get a clear view. Take a step back and cut free from it all so you could breathe a little. Sometimes you just needed to be somewhere else. Somewhere free.

After all, if Sap got to be free, it was only fair that I did, too, right?

So here, now, I was free to cry. I was free to scream. I was free to bleed it out, for the final time. I leaned my head back, letting the wind cut through my thin clothes, letting it throw my hair into my eyes and blow so hard against my face that it changed the direction of the tears rolling down my cheeks so that they were falling at a slight angle.

With a sudden surge of something unidentifiable, my fingers closed around the page of my sketchbook on which eight of my attackers leered at me. I clenched the corner of the page in my fist, crumpling half the paper, and ripped it from the little book. My hand was shaking, every part of me crumbling inside. Just because I felt free from the suffocating atmosphere the loft had begun to exude as of late, didn't mean that I was free from my pain. Free from myself. Not yet...but soon.

I wanted these last few gasps of freedom. I deserved to feel somewhat alive right before I lost that sensation forever, didn't I?

I let the wind snatch the paper from my hand; it tumbled and turned in the air in front of me before being swept away, down towards the street. Maybe it would land in one of the puddles left from the storm the other day. Maybe it would get run over by a car. Maybe the wind would rip it to shreds before it got the chance to meet another fate.

It didn't take long for me to lose sight of the paper; it had been swept away into the darkness with such ease. All I had done was unclench my fingers and let go. Let go of them, the memory of their faces, and watch them be carried away from me into the wind. So easy to let go, so simple to let it fall.

If only I could unclench whatever was holding this pain inside me and let _that _go the same way. Just let it fall away from me like it never existed.

But I couldn't. I couldn't let this pain flow out of me, vanish into nothingness like my sketch. It was stuck in me now. Part of me. In every breath. Every tear. Every heartbeat. It was there.

There was, of course, one way to let the pain be swept away. One last resort—the final promise of escape. How I wanted that escape, that relief...it would feel like taking a breath of fresh air after being certain beyond doubt that I was going to drown. It would be my refuge, my sanctuary. Whatever was coming next, it could only be a respite, I was convinced of that.

Of course, unlike the free-falling sketch, the pain was tied to something. It existed inside something—me. Sealed tightly within its host, the only means to destroy it was to kill that connection...the life that tethered it here, within inviolable walls.

Because when the smoke cleared, when the dizzying chaos ended, those heartless excuses for humans had left this—raw anguish that never died. Never faded. Never released its grip. It preyed upon you, exploited your every weak point until you could no longer fight back, and were lost to it. Until it was so much a part of you that you couldn't claw it away, couldn't make a move against it—because you no longer knew what part was _it, _and what part was _you. _You _became _it, a form of living, breathing agony.

There was only one answer. You had to destroy the life it fed off of.

**~Brian~**

A million questions raced through my mind, coming and going, like flipping mindlessly through television channels without really stopping to see what was on.

Was he hurt? Did he need me? Why did he leave? _When _did he leave? Where the fuck could he be? Why would he leave the loft? Why would he leave _me?_ He hated being away from this place, he was terrified of being on his own...it made no sense.

I uncomfortably recalled the way he'd run that day I'd learned the truth about the party...but he'd been scared then. Scared of me, as much as I hated to acknowledge it. What would he have to be scared of now inside the loft that would send him running again?

Maybe he hadn't been scared. Maybe that wasn't why he left. But what other reason was there? I only dimly realized that he'd left his jacket behind...did that mean he wasn't planning on going far?

All the while, as if in the background, my mind kept up a constant mantra of denial. _No no no no no..._

Occasionally, it broke the pattern and injected a pathetic_ please _in there.

I had enough clarity left of my thoughts to check for his sketchbook by the window. He'd spent the last several mornings there, drawing things he wouldn't let me see. Of course, he didn't actively try to hide the book, so I could have looked any time. Maybe that was why I hadn't thought there was anything too horrible in there. If there was something truly horrifying, he would have made more of an effort to hide it.

I frowned, puzzled, when I realized the sketchbook was gone. Where would he go that he would take it with him? Had he gone somewhere simply to draw?

My eyes fell on the thin rectangle left in almost the exact same place I'd last seen his drawing pad. It was a piece of paper, folded in half, torn cleanly from the sketchbook it had originated from. Either he'd left it, or he'd stuck it in between the pages and it had fallen out.

I picked up the folded piece of paper, and unwillingly—trying to mentally prepare myself for whatever I was about to see—I smoothed it out. I closed my eyes momentarily in relief.

It was just my head and shoulders, set against the background of the city, seen through the very window I was standing next to now. The details were flawless, of both the city and myself. Every hair on my head seemed to have been carefully and deliberately drawn, my face was angled, perfectly proportionate...it was amazing, the way he saw me.

I wondered fleetingly—ludicrously, considering my current panic—if it was possible that I was more beautiful in his eyes than anyone else's...maybe even my own. He certainly saw me as beautiful. He put more care into these drawings of me than anything else he did.

Of course, Justin had always been a perfectionist when it came to his art, so maybe I was imagining the meticulous care he put into his sketches and paintings and whatever else of me. But they seemed to absorb his attention the way the others didn't...like there was something more than just inspiration there. Each stroke of his paintbrush on the canvas, each line traced onto the page was delicate. Vital. He poured himself into his work. Even the backgrounds and details seemed to be created with something deeper than just his natural talent. He truly _cared_ about what he was doing. He'd drawn me in bed, taking the time to draw each wrinkle in the duvet surrounding me...he'd drawn me at Babylon, taking care to get the lighting just perfect...he'd drawn me in front of the city landscape, the sun gleaming off the buildings at picture perfect angles.

Well, he'd drawn the fucking city enough times in recent weeks, I supposed. He'd always loved looking out the window, trying to capture a particular moment on paper. He especially liked the differences when it was snowing or raining or especially sunny...he must have drawn the view a hundred times. In the last few weeks more than ever, he could be found sitting in front of the window, staring out at the sky, sketching away. Probably not actually sketching the sky or the city, but that window had become his refuge of sorts. He loved the view, the God-like ability to watch over everything from where he sat. I still remembered the day when he'd gone up to the roof to draw, in his isolated point of view, separate from everything, utterly absorbed in the perspective he'd attained...where had he ever gotten the idea to go draw on the roof? It was actually kind of—

Wait.

Hold on...

_Oh_ _no. _

I was already dressed—shoes on, keys in hand—but it still seemed to take five seconds too long to bolt to the door, which probably woke the whole building when I threw it open with enough force to send it bouncing off the frame and almost sliding shut again.

I forgot to lock it. I forgot to set the alarm. I couldn't spare a thought for anything that wasn't about finding Justin. If something happened to him...if he....

I didn't want to complete the thought.

I hurried down the hall, but everything seemed to pass me in a haze. _Justin Justin Justin..._

Justin wouldn't...he wouldn't actually...

But I couldn't lie to myself. Maybe the Justin I used to know 'wouldn't actually,' but this broken Justin was in so much pain...

No. He had to be okay. He would be.

I refused to consider any other possibility.

**~Justin~ **

My throat was dry. My eyes were not. I stood, balanced too precariously on the edge of my life, on the last five inches that would end it.

All I had to do was take a step forward, and all my pain would be gone.

Some logical part of my brain, my voice of reason, tried desperately to plead with me. It yelled at me to stop being stupid, go back downstairs, and climb into bed with Brian. It told me that there were better ways of dealing with my pain. It told me that Brian would never forgive me. All those promises I'd made him...that I wouldn't do anything drastic....

But Brian had gotten along fine for nearly thirty years before I'd shown up in his life, and he would be fine once I was gone. I felt a twinge of regret when I thought about what this would do to him...but he was Brian Kinney. He would get over it. My mother, Daphne, Molly, Debbie...they would all be fine. I hated the idea of hurting them all. I truly did. But what good was I to them like this? Broken and constantly treading the line, always a step away from going too far, into a dark place I couldn't crawl out of...always so close to just giving in. It wasn't fair to anyone.

This was the right answer. The only answer.

I couldn't turn around now. I couldn't have this relief so close, and just turn my back on it. Not when my heart seared with anguish, and tears rolled down my cheeks at a constant rate, and nothing but instinctive fear and the last whisper of reason were all that was holding me here. Not when I knew that, if I did turn around, my forecast was as bleak as it had been yesterday. As it would be for possibly the rest of my life, if I let it go on. Could I stand so close to the answer, let it slip by, and wake up tomorrow to begin dealing with it all over again, _knowing _how close I'd been to the relief I sought so desperately?

I closed my eyes, shut out the disorienting view below me. Maybe that would help. As terrified as I was of taking that step, I hated the idea of _not_ taking it more. I hated the idea of allowing this pain to live on inside me. I could stop it. I had the power to end it. It felt good to feel powerful, when I had been sure I'd lost that part of me forever. Lost my spirit. My voice. My strength. Lost myself.

I took a deep breath that burned my throat. What would it be like when I would no longer have to breathe? I took another breath, just to feel it, really_ feel _it. The instinctual need, the craving for air if I went too long without it, the welcome relief when I finally took it in, and the natural release of it moments later. Such a labored pattern to be so natural. My heart thudded against my chest, as though reminding me that my own vitality was severely limited.

I was done with this. Done with life. Done with pain. The last year had been nothing but torture. Slow, agonizing cruelty. First the bashing, then the party—no, I wouldn't call it 'the party' now. I wouldn't call it 'that night' or any other cowardly name for the truth. Now, in these last few moments, I could afford to be brave. It would all be over soon.

So I would call it what it was. The bashing and the rapes. I'd been bashed in the head with a baseball bat by someone who wanted nothing more than to see me dead, and I'd been repeatedly raped at a party I'd foolishly attended. After the two vicious attacks I'd already been subjected to, I was afraid for what was coming next. Or at least, I would be, if I planned to meet it. But what was the point? More pain? Why bother with living if this was all there was to life?

It would be quick, I hoped. I would fall, maybe feel my stomach desert me first, and then I would fall. Darkness would embrace me. Or maybe it would be light. I didn't know. My heart had stopped a couple of times in the ambulance that Brian had called in that parking garage so long ago, but I couldn't remember what that was like. Maybe there was nothing. Maybe I would just be embraced by death. After all, there was no one to save me now. Not Brian, not one of the paramedics—I was free. Free to end my own pain. Free to die.

All I had to do was take the final step.

**~Brian~**

My feet could not move fast enough. My lungs burned in protest, but I refused to allow them a reprieve. No time.

It was partially instinctive; I just _knew _where he was. Where he had to be. It was a long-shot, I'll admit...but I knew him. I knew how his mind worked. He would be there. Or at least, he _had _been there...

_Don't. That's not an option._

If every cell in my body hadn't been entirely focused on getting to the rooftop, the voice in the back of my mind might have slowed me down. That voice was afraid. It didn't want to know what was up there. What it would find...or not find.

Just as I threw open the door to the rooftop, a gust of wind robbed me of my remaining breath.

Due partially to the light of the city, and partly to the silvery illumination of the moon through the thin blanket of clouds, I had no trouble at all spotting the dark figure on the other side of the roof.

That proverbial ledge I'd been so afraid of him falling off had just become a whole lot more fucking literal.


	16. Chance

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, RL has kind of gotten in the way lately. But the evil cliffy will be getting resolved, one way or another, in this chappy, so I'm going to shut up now. Or maybe I'll keep talking just to draw out the suspense a little more. ;) **

**~Brian~**

Any words I had prepared died immediately in my throat.

No. _No. _

This was not happening. He was not standing there on the ledge of the building. He was not inches away from actually doing this, killing himself, killing _me.... _

But if it wasn't happening, why was the sick sensation of fear so very real as it turned my veins to ice?

He didn't seem to have noticed my sudden appearance. The howling wind drowned out everything up here. It tore at my clothes and nipped at my skin, chilling me to the bone. Or maybe that was just the overpowering dread spreading throughout my entire body. I couldn't think. Couldn't move. Couldn't even breathe.

He was too close. Too close to the edge, and too far away from me. How could I have let this happen? How could I have let it come to this?

My voice seemed to have been stolen away by the fierce wind; I struggled to find it and force it to speak. But I was terrified—he was far too fucking close to the edge. Close enough that startling him like that might cause him to lose his precious balance, which was a chance I didn't want to take.

With an effort I wouldn't have thought possible, I forced myself to take a step closer at the same time as his left foot slid visibly nearer to the precipice, and suddenly I was screaming.

"_Justin!" _

It was as though the worst moment of my life was playing out for a second time, the temporarily forgotten echoes of the memory reverberating through the months and coming alive before me. The haunting vision of the parking garage had been replaced by the rooftop, but in so many ways, nothing had changed. Once again, I was screaming out his name. Once again, I was too far away. Once again, I was helpless, forced to watch, forced to see and feel it all without being able to do a thing.

But I would _not _be too late this time. I _could not _be too late. Not again. Not for him.

He spun around, and my heart stopped completely for a split second when the sudden movement nearly threw him off balance in the wrong direction. I took another automatic step towards him.

"Justin..." My voice broke as my eyes met his pleadingly.

I never imagined I'd think this about him, but he looked nothing short of horrible. His eyes, even in the dim lighting, were tortured. Moonlight glistened off his tear-tracked cheeks, and his breath was coming in short little gasps, a single wave of anxiety away from a panic attack. If this was merely the outer indication of the torment he felt inside, I thought I could understand. I could understand why he would choose this over even one more day of hell. I almost didn't even recognize him anymore. It was nearly impossible to link this creature of misery to my wonderful, glowing, beautiful Sunshine.

But then he spoke my name. His voice was cracking under the strain of his anguish, but I could still hear _him _beneath it all, still see the mingled fear and relief in his eyes, the fragile hope...and that was all I needed for my own desperate beam of hope to flare to life, warring with the ice in my veins.

There was still a chance. A chance I wasn't too late. A chance that he was still somewhere inside. I couldn't let that slip away, couldn't bring myself to let go of the possibility of freeing him from the relentless grasp of his pain until it allowed him to breathe again, laughing and living as he had once done, in a lifetime that seemed so impossibly disconnected from this one.

That one chance was all I needed.

"Brian..." The single softly-spoken word was almost lost in the wind, but I caught it. Just as I planned to catch him. Whatever it took. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?" he demanded. He was terrified, I could hear it in his strangled voice, but I wasn't sure what scared him more: falling, or the idea of me catching him.

I took another step closer. His body tensed, and I froze in place. I couldn't play with the chance I had been given. There was no room for mistakes, not in this.

"Get back from there," I ordered, ignoring his question, my voice shaking quite as much as his. My eyes darted to the ledge on which he was standing far too precariously; his entire life literally hung in the balance. "Justin, get back."

Once again, as though reaching through the intervening years to the present moment, the memory of another night, another man standing on the ledge of a rooftop, clawed its way into my thoughts.

But this was different. I had been looking for a thrill that night, a way to feel somewhat alive, and flirting with death had seemed like the perfect way to do that. I hadn't really been intending to kill myself.

It was the kind of irony that made me grimace—the cruel, in-your-face type that life threw at you for its own sick amusement—that it had been the night I'd met Justin. The night that had changed my life in so many ways, the night that had ensured that one day, over a year later, I'd be standing here in this exact spot, pleading with the little blond trick under the lamppost to save his own life. And not just his—I was pleading with him to save my life, as well.

"Justin, get the fuck back from there!" I repeated loudly when he ignored me and turned back around to face the city unfolding below him.

"Why?" he called back.

_Why? _

He wanted a fucking _reason?_

How about because if he jumped, if he killed himself...he'd kill me too? Was that reason enough for him? Was that reason enough to go on living? I knew what it felt like to think I had lost him. I never wanted to feel it again.

I'd do absolutely anything not to feel it again.

"Justin...I mean it. Get back from there, right now," I warned him. I was going to have a heart attack. Or a panic attack. My heart was racing and I couldn't breathe and I was just waiting to see which assault on my body came first. "Please..."

"I'm done, Brian," he cried, my name coming out as a quiet sob.

Done? He was _done? _Done what? Living? Dying? Done with both, with everything?

Well, I couldn't let him be done. I couldn't let it be over, let _him _be over. I suddenly understood what it meant to see your life flash before your eyes. Only it wasn't my own life—or at least, not _only _mine—that I was watching in the split second it took for me to blink. It was _ours—_mine and his, both of us. Our life together. From the first night that had changed everything, to the months I spent trying to push him away, to all the times I hated myself for failing to do so, to admitting—if only in my own head—that I fucking cared way too much, to this very moment. To here. To now. To me and him, both of us one impulsive decision away from losing everything. All the times, in the beginning, that I'd regretted so much. All the times I'd wished he wasn't there, and now I didn't want to remember what that felt like. All the times I told myself that I didn't care, didn't want him...and now he was everything.

Suddenly, I felt like I was the one standing up there, preparing to fall. I was so close to losing it all, so fucking close to watching it disappear. I wanted to scream myself hoarse from the sheer desperation I felt. Scream it out until the urgency left my body and I could fall, too. I knew, even now, that if Justin took that step, my desperate desire for nothingness would be my only companion to the pain.

"Justin...please..." I begged. My eyes burned; I couldn't see for a moment as a painful blur obstructed my vision, and I wiped it away, leaving a trail of wetness behind on the back of my hand. All I could think was_ please. _Please please please. Don't let this happen. Don't let him do this. I wasn't sure who I was pleading with so despairingly, but it seemed natural to ask. Natural to plead and beg, even if it was pointless. Even if it didn't do a thing.

"I can't...fucking _do _this..." his voice faltered as his own tears got the best of him, and he glanced back over his shoulder at me just as I cautiously took another step towards him.

"Don't!" he yelled, catching the movement, his body tense again. "Just stay away. Go back downstairs."

Was he fucking _insane?_ He wanted me to go back to the motherfucking loft while he _killed himself? _He honestly expected that of me?

Well _fuck _that. I couldn't even wrap my mind around how ridiculous that demand was.

"Justin..." I began again, careful to keep my distance this time. I hated it. I hated the way he made me feel so helpless again. How could he do this? How could he keep me away? How could he make me watch this and live this and _feel _this? "Please, come back from there. Look, we can deal with this—all of it, okay? We can get through it, I promise."

Maybe it was a lie. Maybe I couldn't keep the vows and assurances I made him, in the passion of the moment. But I would do everything I could—I'd tell him anything if it got him back from there, and I'd do everything in my power to fulfill my promises to him once he was safe again. I was too terrified to feel guilty for the pacifying lies...I couldn't _not _promise them.

"We can't...I can't." He wasn't turning around. Part of me wanted to take the opportunity to get closer, but the other part desperately needed to make him look at me, draw his attention away from the streets below him. But it was difficult to concentrate, to form words when I couldn't think past the icy fear so chilling that it burned. Everything inside me was screaming in agony. I couldn't do this. I couldn't watch this. I would die if I had to watch him jump.

"Don't do this," I told him, just barely loud enough to be heard over the raging of the wind. "Don't do this to me, Justin. Please."

I only dimly realized that I was crying now, tears streaming steadily down my cheeks. I could barely feel them, barely feel anything but the gaping wound he was tearing inside of me.

"You don't get to decide this for me," he said firmly, truthfully. I was very much aware of that fact. More aware than I wanted to be aware of my own uselessness, my own helplessness.

"Goddammit Justin, get down from there!" I could hear the pathetic pleading note in my own voice, the poorly concealed terror behind the angry demand. More terror than the time _I'd _stood up on the precipice of everything, and weighed my own life in my hands. Tasting the danger. Feeling the excitement.

But Justin was only feeling pain. He wasn't looking for danger, he was looking to put an end to his agony. He was looking for an escape from the daily torture he couldn't forget. He was looking—he was looking to feel nothing. That was what he wanted. Nothing at all. He'd give his life to feel nothing, including any chance at happiness, because his pain was so overwhelming that it took over everything else. It was like a thick, billowing cloud blanketing the Sunshine.

There was a moment when I hardly recognized his voice, so twisted in pain, suffocated with tears and slightly hysterical.

"This is _my _life!" he shouted into the night air, a spark of passion suddenly ignited in him. It was only desperate fury, but it was better than hopeless despair, for the moment. _"Mine! _And it's my fucking choice if I...if I want to end it."

But he sounded suddenly uncertain, and the bubble of hope grew inside me.

And then his right foot slid closer to the edge. Two inches. Two measly inches were all that was separating him from nothingness. All that was preventing my life from shattering to pieces before my eyes.

"Justin, no!" _Don't you dare fucking do this to me, you little twat...you can't do this to me now...._

He didn't move. Not to step closer to the ledge, fortunately, but also not to look at me the way I wanted him to. I needed to see his eyes. Needed him to see how desperate I was.

"Justin, _please!" _Fine. If he refused to see it, I'd let him hear it instead. Let him hear how much this was killing me. "We'll get through this, all right? Just _get back," _I bit the words off, teeth clenched together, trying to control the tremors in my body.

I had never been more desperate—or more helpless—in my entire life.

I had never wanted something and been so far away from it. It had never been so impossible to reach out and grab something so close to me, on the other side of the world.

But I needed him like I needed air, and I was not letting it happen like this. I was not letting him slip away. I was not letting him go. It was the first time in my life that I would honestly do _anything. _I was beyond limits. I was beyond holding back. I'd give _anything, _anything at all, if it kept him here. Whatever he wanted, whatever it took, I would say it. Do it. Give it. Whatever it was, he could have it if it meant he'd stay.

I had always been prepared to let him go. But not this way. There were never supposed to be locks on our doors, but this was one time I refused to allow him to run away.

He was not going anywhere. Not if I could help it. And there was no time like the present to give everything for someone that _meant_ everything.

Time seemed to pause for a moment, a glitch in the system, as the words tumbled out of my mouth, one after the other...the thing I swore I'd never say.

_I love you._

His head turned. I allowed the hope to stretch, clinging to it, pleading with it not to abandon me. "I love you," I repeated. I was surprised that it didn't feel wrong, coming from my lips. It felt almost natural, like I'd been telling him that all along.

Time still hadn't resumed—it remained as still as ever, the two of us frozen on the rooftop, trapped inside a single moment. And though it was difficult to even carry a conversation up here over the tumultuous winds, the echo of my words screamed at us both, piercing the night. It rattled the windows of the building and settled over the city below us, encompassing everything. Something tangible. Something real.

Because I had said it. And what was more, I'd actually _meant _it. Whatever role my own desperation had played in it all, I'd still meant it. I did love him.

He was struggling. Fighting with himself. He wanted to believe it, I could tell...he wanted to trust that I meant what I said and fly into my arms and hold on tight. He wanted to believe that I could save him again.

I prayed to whoever was listening that he would take the chance and trust me.

"Justin..." I was begging again. If he took that step...if he made that decision...I would cease to live. Maybe the physical embodiment of Brian Kinney would go on existing, but the part of me that lived and smiled and felt and joked and laughed...it would die. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't be able to handle it if I had to lose him.

So I wouldn't.

"Justin, please..." My voice was broken. Falling apart. So close to giving up on me completely. Life itself was crumbling to pieces while I tried to hold it together; it was like trying to build a sandcastle without the water. It all just kept slipping away. How could everything be held so precariously in one moment? How could one night decide so _much? _"Get back, please...come here...just come here, Justin..."

I chanced another step. I was mere feet away from him now. I had to get to him. Had to pull him back from the edge of it all. Had to save him this time...I owed him that.

"Please, Justin..." I reached out to him, begging him to take my hand, let me take him into my arms and fix this. Pleading with him to just give me the fucking_ chance._ "Come back from there...it's okay...just come back, I love you..."

It was worth every 'I love you' I had to give. It was worth every word, every moment of honesty, every part of me I gave if it saved him. I'd give anything. Everything. Now was no time to hold back. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I held back now and he chose to...if he chose to never give me another opportunity. It was the choice between willingly giving up everything to save him, or having everything torn from me if I couldn't. I wouldn't refrain from speaking the truth aloud if it brought him back to me. Last time, I'd literally been left with his blood on my hands. That would not be the case this time. I would not keep anything to myself that had the slightest chance of saving him now.

"I promise...we'll get through it. I'll help you, we'll deal with all of it, okay? Please, don't fucking do this to me...." _Please don't leave me. I fucking need you here._

Slowly, so fucking slowly, I moved closer, another step, another inch, so close...

And then I was standing behind him, my arms wrapped securely around his torso, overlooking the city. He gave a little start when he felt my arms envelop him, but it didn't matter, he wasn't going anywhere now. I clutched him to my chest, hugging him tightly enough to potentially crush his lungs and pressing my cheek against the side of his head as we both continued to cry. And yet...

Every cell in my body rejoiced with relief.

He was safe. He was in pain, and so was I, but he was alive. And he was mine, and I was holding him, and I still couldn't breathe but I was so—I couldn't even find the words. I was going to collapse as the bone-chilling fear and dread and panic drained from my body, leaving open, biting relief and gratefulness behind. I silently thanked a deity I barely believed in a thousand times over. I didn't care if I didn't really believe in any of it, I didn't care that I'd just told Justin the very thing I'd sworn would never fall from my lips...I didn't care about anything but the man in my arms, and keeping him here and alive and breathing.

"There," I whispered into his ear. He was still crying; I could feel his sobs as they racked his body, but as long as he was letting me hold onto him, I would have the chance to fix that. I would have the chance to make things right again. "If you jump...I go with you."

We were linked now. Together in this. If he went down, I came with him, because I sure as hell was not letting go.

He gave another desperate sob. I felt his body lurch with the movement, and tightened my grip.

"I can't," he said softly. "Please...don't make me come back. I just...I can't do this anymore. It's so fucking _hard..._it hurts so _much,_ Brian..."

He was quickly being overcome by his own anguished sobs; he would soon be intelligible. His body slackened slightly in my arms, and I wondered if he might just pass out, go into shock or something. Maybe it would make this easier.

"Justin, listen to me—are you listening?" He sniffed in response. "We'll get through this. I promise...I promise we'll do it."

"How?" he whimpered. "How? It's been _months..._I don't—I can't feel like this anymore. I can't do it. It's _killing _me..."

"Okay," I agreed. "Then we'll do whatever it takes. I'll help you...but this isn't the answer. Don't do this to me, Justin." I closed my eyes against the fresh wave of tears welling up in them, and forced myself to swallow around the lump in my throat.

"I don't want to feel them anymore."

"We'll deal with it," I promised once again. "Just come back inside, all right? Lets go back inside. I've got you."

I gave his fragile body a small tug backward. There was a split second of resistance, and then he was leaning into me as I lead him gently across the roof, ready to catch him if his knees suddenly gave out. Even in the currently subdued lighting, I could see that he was pale—not altogether unexpectedly, considering what had just occurred—but he was shaking, and his eyes looked oddly out of focus, as though his mind had already carried him somewhere far away, where he wouldn't have to think about any of this.

Finally, we made it indoors.

The staggering relief I'd felt on the roof was dissipating with each step. The burst of overpowering respite from my stabbing fear was ebbing as it was replaced with more prominent thoughts and emotions that I didn't want to consider.

I wondered vaguely who would catch me if _I _suddenly passed out.

Every step suddenly hurt. Every breath seemed to bring in a fresh outlook on the last half an hour as it replayed in my mind. Confusion. Panic. Dread. Anger. Fear. Relief.

Every thought that had been overtaken by my panic on the rooftop suddenly seemed intensified in its frenzied vividness. The astounding relief, though still unbelievably overpowering, was fading with every second, the white buzz it had created quieting down, as several hundred new emotions were being born, a thousand thoughts and fears and concerns and uncertainties making their way to the forefront of my mind.

Too many thoughts. Too much that I didn't want to think about.

I kept a supporting arm around his waist as I slid open the door I'd forgotten to lock. He broke free of my grip the moment we were inside; I turned around to shut the door, and when I turned back, he was leaning over the counter, his shoulders shaking slightly. He didn't seem to even notice the gentle rubbing motions of my hand on his back. It wasn't enough for me, anyway. I needed to feel him breathing against me. I needed to _feel _that he was warm and real and alive and _here. _

My emotional defenses took a heavy blow; my composure cracked at the idea of a Justin that was _not _warm and alive and standing here in my kitchen, and I sniffed rather pathetically, a few more tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes and tracing wet paths along my cheeks when I didn't bother to wipe them away.

As though the sound of my pain was the key, he looked up, his eyes drowning behind the tears pooling within them. I was sure I looked no better than he did, and I didn't hesitate when he suddenly threw himself into my arms, nearly knocking me over, but wrapped my arms around him, folding him inside my embrace, where he belonged. Every gentle rise of his chest against mine felt like a tiny miracle, every hot tear shed into my shirt remained a sign that he was at least fucking _here. _I hadn't come so close to losing him since the night of his prom. How many fucking times was I going to have to be mere seconds away from 'too late?' How many times was I going to have to experience the sickening fear that accompanied thinking I'd lost him for good?

"How'd you know?" he asked, after a good five minutes of neither of us saying a word. There was no need to elaborate on the question.

"I know you," I replied honestly. He sniffed, and squeezed me a little tighter in renewed pain at whatever he'd taken from my answer.

"Why'd you fucking stop me?" was his next demand.

One of the million different emotions I'd been trying to repress suddenly burst forth from its restraints, and I swear, at that moment, I just wanted to hate him. How the fuck could he ask me that? How could he expect anything different?

How the fuck could he _do _this to me?

I wanted to yell at him, scream in his face and call him a stupid shit and a selfish twat and whatever the fuck else occurred to me until he apologized. I wanted to demand the answers I deserved. I wanted him to know how much pain he had caused. I wanted him to know what I'd felt up on that rooftop that had driven me to what I considered to be such desperate measures. I wanted him to know and feel and taste every second of the heart-stopping fear I'd experienced. I wanted to _hate _him.

Wanted to. Couldn't.

Because all I felt was overwhelming despair, and a desperate need to erase every last trace of pain from his awareness. Because all I wanted to do was pull him closer and kiss every inch of his beautiful skin and hold him for hours and just have this all be a nightmare. Because all I was capable of at that moment were quiet sobs into his hair and meaningless whispers into his ear and fingertips caressing his skin. I couldn't hate him—he was Justin.

I couldn't hate him—I loved him.

As I held onto him, I seriously considered just...never letting him go. Never allowing him to leave the safe circle of my arms. I needed him here, so that I could feel his breath against my neck and his hair tickling my chin and his arms wrapped tight around my waist. What would he do if I simply refused to let go of him?

Suddenly, through my pain and anger and desperation, I remembered that he was still expecting an answer. Why had I stopped him? I could have just told him that it was simply a moral obligation. As a human being, it was the only right choice to be made. And of course, that should have been enough, but it wasn't the whole truth.

No, the truth was that I'd stopped him because I couldn't have fucking done anything different. Because it had felt like a dagger through the heart when I'd realized where he was. Because he'd been trying to kill _me _by taking himself away. Because I _more _than fucking _cared_ about him.

"Because...I meant what I said." I meant every word I'd told him. I fucking loved him, and now he knew it.

And he knew what I meant by my answer, too. No need to explain or elaborate. He knew me just as well as I knew him, and he knew my way of saying things without actually saying them. He didn't need me to repeat it, not right now.

His body slumped a bit in my arms, his head resting against my shoulder, and I realized suddenly that it was late. Well, more early than late. The sun would be awakening in a matter of hours. I was exhausted, surely he was too, but any hope of sleep right now was an evasive wish. I wasn't sure how I'd be able to sleep ever again.

Too much to think about. Too much to deal with. Was this overpowering sensation of anxiety and helplessness a fraction of what he felt during his every waking moment?

"Are you tired?" I whispered. Maybe _I _couldn't sleep, but that didn't mean that he shouldn't be able to get some rest. No doubt he needed it. He had to be just as exhausted as I was, not to mention as emotionally drained.

"I don't want to sleep," he muttered into my shoulder. I could understand that. The last thing on my mind was the weighty discomfort of my eyelids. "Brian..."

"Yeah?" I asked when he didn't continue.

He didn't say anything. I waited.

"Could you fix me some tea?"

It was the last thing I expected to hear, but I couldn't say no. There was no possible way for me to refuse him anything he asked of me right now.

"Of course," I said quietly, and released him cautiously from my embrace. He backed up against the counter, staring at me with bloodshot eyes. He looked even more terrible now in the bright illumination of my kitchen than he had on the roof, and yet...he was the most beautiful fucking thing I'd ever seen. Because he was here. Because I hadn't been too late, not this time.

It felt like a tornado had swept through my life overnight. Just picked me up, spun me around inside its vortex in a cruel ride that made me sick, and deposited me in the middle of nowhere. I was lost. I didn't know where I was, how to get out, or what was going to happen next. Frankly, it terrified me. I was surrounded by disarray—shambles of the relative security I had managed to build up around me. Thrown into chaos and confusion and panic and pain and I didn't even know which way was up.

So I settled for taking things moment by moment, and began fixing his tea. Something I could handle.

I went about my task with deliberate care, counting the teabags twice, checking the temperature on the stove at ninety-second intervals, measuring his preferred amount of sugar to the last grain...anything to keep my thoughts from wandering. Anything to keep my focus on something that didn't make my head whirl with the confusion of my dizzying thought process, or make my stomach contract with the knowledge of where those thoughts lead. Anything not to think or feel or consider what-if's or what-might-have-been's.

While I worked in silence, he began to drift from the kitchen. At first, I was fully prepared to stop him, should attempt to lock himself in the bathroom, but he just wandered over to the very window I'd found his sketch under, minutes before the realization of where he had been had hit me like a physical force. I shuddered at the thought of what might have happened if he hadn't left that drawing behind...if I hadn't been led over to that window...if I hadn't remembered his first grasp at escape all those months ago...if I hadn't fucking _known _him as well as I did.

The seconds ticked by in silence. Too much silence. Too much space and time and openness, and not enough activity to keep my mind occupied. Questions I didn't want to think about wormed their way through my desperate defensive wall I'd erected precisely for keeping them out.

What now? How could I trust that he wouldn't try this again? What if he tried it a different way? How was I supposed to hold true to my promise to help him with this? How could I ensure that he never considered this as a means of escape ever again?

So many questions, and yet not an answer in sight.

I couldn't be entirely sure, but I thought the sky had lightened to an unobtrusive shade of gray by the time his tea was finished. I rubbed my eyes wearily, my physical exhaustion trying to find a place of acknowledgment in between the tumbling links of my mind that were struggling to fit together.

Barely considering what I was doing, I pulled his favorite porcelain mug from a cabinet and poured him a cup full of warm amber liquid. Once, just to get on his nerves, I'd placed the cup deliberately on the very top shelf of the cabinet, just beyond his reach. Of course, he could have easily grabbed any other cup, but he had always wanted _that one, _especially since he knew I'd placed it up there on purpose, just to irritate him. I'd watched from the table as he'd stretched and reached high above his head with no result, though I'd quite enjoyed the view from behind. Finally, he'd merely strutted over to where I sat, picked up my own mug of fresh coffee, and downed it in one large gulp. Looking smug, he'd sat down and pulled my newspaper toward him, just daring me to say a word.

We hadn't had such a lighthearted moment in...I couldn't even remember anymore. Those bastards had stolen every bit of light from our—_relationship. _The joking, the laughing, the teasing, the smiling...the _happiness..._it was all gone. I couldn't even recall the last time I'd made him giggle or grin or any of the carefree things that used to come so easily.

Sighing, I carried the steaming mug of tea over to the window. He hadn't moved in ten minutes—I'd counted. He stared out at the raging wind's assault on the city, his forehead resting against the glass. His eyes were distant—I wondered exactly where his thoughts had carried him. Wondered if his mind was anywhere near where mine was.

Wordlessly, I handed him the mug. He looked surprised to see me standing there all of a sudden, but reached out and took it. I took a seat beside him as he sipped at it carefully.

He looked at me, clear blue eyes piercing my every defense, fixing me with a stare that could have frozen the earth's revolutions around the sun. Calculating. Struggling. Speaking volumes, yet the message was anything but clear. He was contemplating something, his hand curled tightly around the navy-colored mug. His breathing seemed to speed up while mine all but stopped.

Once again, time seemed to halt in its tracks. Waiting for us. Waiting for him.

Silence. A frozen moment.

And then he shattered it.

**~Justin~**

"I wanted to call you."

The first five words seemed to fall past my lips of their own accord; I had no idea how they had managed to escape the stronghold of my mind that seemed so determined to keep them prisoners.

But they fell. Spilled from my lips, even as my stomach proceeded to tie itself into impossible knots, and my heart beat wildly against my ribs. My hands were shaking; I hastily set down the nearly full mug of tea before I spilled it all over Brian's carpet.

I couldn't think. Couldn't analyze what I was trying to say. I simply had to say it, or it would never come out, locked forever behind the steel bars I'd had them imprisoned behind for so long.

"At the party..." I explained, at his bewildered expression. I hadn't felt any sense of control over those first words, and I still didn't now. I'd been urging myself to speak, just say something, and that was what had come out. It was the single thought that had been crossing my mind at the moment my will to speak had won over the desire to keep it inside. "I wanted to call you to come get me."

His features melted from utter confusion to pure astonishment. I glanced down at my cup of tea, away from his gaze, and allowed the next thought to flow from my lips as it flashed across my brain in the uncomfortable means of a memory.

"There were these guys...all around me. They kept looking at me...it was like they knew something that I didn't." It was exactly what it felt like. They were all in on some secret that I should have known better than to wait around for. All the open glances, the longing expressions, the twisted smirks...they'd just been waiting for it all along. I saw it so clearly now. Hindsight was a cruel trick of the mind.

Brian was absolutely silent. Perhaps he had been overcome with the same inability that I had suffered these past weeks...the inability to speak. His eyes were alert and wild and trained exclusively on me, taking in every word. Every syllable.

I forced myself onward.

"I was starting to get a little...anxious, I guess. I was trying to remember if you said whether or not you'd be home that night."

My thoughts were too dizzying and my stomach too twisted for me to attempt to edit this in a way convenient for him to hear it. It was coming out; there was no picking and choosing what was revealed and what remained hidden and what crossed my mind and what I forced back. I was pulling up the dregs of my memories of that party, one by one, whatever I could remember. And that desperation to have Brian with me had been one of the strongest emotions I'd felt that night, second only to the paralyzing fear. I'd just wanted him with me, near me, watching out for me and keeping me safe. Brian never let anything happen to me when I was with him.

"I decided to just wait it out a little while longer, I thought it'd be okay...and then—Sap came up to me. He...he told me to take my shirt off. Decoration," I spat the word out, but it left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. I'd never suspected, then, that I was to be so much more than that. That I would end up being the entertainment.

For a moment, I didn't think I could go on. Tears obstructed my vision, my throat closed up around the words I was trying to force my tongue to speak, and a glance at Brian revealed a look of resignation on his face. He was preparing himself to hear this. To hear, firsthand, what had been done to me. What I had gone through.

It was time.

I took a deep breath that stirred the nauseous butterflies in my stomach. They fluttered against my insides, causing me to shudder and squeeze my eyes shut at the instinctive urges that rose up inside me. I should be used to them; I'd dealt with them every single day since it had happened. I'd dealt with the hatred of being inside my own stained, filthy skin...my own tainted life.

But for the first time, the lock that held my voice inside the box I'd kept it contained in had clicked open. The memories were as horrible as ever, but...they were free. Almost as if we'd finally found the key.

I knew what that 'key' was, and I forced the thought of it from my mind. I didn't want to think about it right now. If I did...I would be able to see the flaws. The holes in the fervent desire to believe, to trust it. And that would kill me.

Instead, I just opened my mouth, opened the chest of words and memories I'd tried so desperately to lock away, and suddenly it was all pouring out, and it was too late to turn back.

"I was stupid." I hated explaining this part to Brian, of all people. He'd told me over and over again that it wasn't my fault, that I could not be held accountable for anything they had done, but hadn't he also told me to only ever accept drugs from friends? To never take shit that wasn't familiar? Hadn't he warned me about that? He'd warned me about this whole nightmare. All the times I'd thought he was just too cynical. _Realistic,_ as he would put it. All the times I thought he just doubted the world too much.

Maybe I just didn't doubt it enough.

"I took a joint from Sap," I admitted, trying to hold the inevitable onslaught of tears behind my closed eyelids. I had a feeling that Brian was restraining his automatic instinct to reach out and hug me; I was grateful. If I was going to do this, I needed to just say it. Do it. Get it over with. I couldn't afford to get lost in his comforting embrace, the feeling of being protected. The only thing keeping me speaking was the nauseating adrenaline created by the intensity of the last forty-five minutes, the desperate desire, the need for the drastic. The need for freedom. Now was no time to sink into comfortable familiarity, no matter how tempting the offer.

"I told him I didn't want it. But he...I don't know, I did it anyway. I just wanted to get it all over with and go home." I'd been more uneasy than I'd even really realized at the time. Telling myself that I was fine, that I was imagining the potential danger...that the men that kept touching me and looking at me and making me so nervous were just trying to have a good time. They wouldn't hurt me. Even Sap, though I couldn't deny even back then that he wasn't exactly a model citizen...I never really believed he'd _hurt_ me. Not like that. "I should have just left. But he said...well, it was our deal," I tried to defend myself quietly. "He—all night, he kept _touching _me, but I just thought—"

"What do you mean, he kept touching you?"

It was the first time Brian had spoken since I had started my story. I got the impression that he didn't dare to risk breaking something he considered to be so fragile. Didn't dare interrupt me, for fear that it would shut me up completely once again. Now, it seemed, he just couldn't help himself. I repressed a sigh; I wondered how many of his furious questions I was going to have to answer, but tried to remind myself that this had to be almost as hard for him as it was for me. I sure as hell would not want to hear about _him _in any type of pain. It was going to kill him to hear this, no matter how much he had begged me to tell it in the past.

I glanced over at him. He sighed, looking apologetic, but no less bitter at my revelation. "Sorry. Go on."

I took a deep breath, and the tears in my eyes spilled over. It had only ever been a matter of time, anyway. "It was stupid...the drugs...and then he offered me a drink." Brian stiffened noticeably, but didn't interrupt this time.

The scene seemed to flash before my eyes. Taking me there. Taking me back. Sap's guarded smirk as he offered me that drink. The cool relief in my burning throat. Fuck knows what that shit had been spiked with...and like an idiot, like a naive fool, I'd accepted it. Made it so easy. Easier than he'd ever needed it to be.

"He wanted to show me around his place," I said slowly. The words came more reluctantly now. My head had stopped spinning and remained focused. Play by play, I saw it happen once again. Felt it. The initial innocent acceptance. The confusion when things started escalating beyond my comfort or control. The fear when I realized what was happening, what was about to happen.... "I didn't know—I mean, I thought it was okay."

Brian was staring at me, his expression unreadable.

I swallowed thickly around the painful lump that had risen in my throat. I hoped he could distinguish my words beneath my tears, falling harder than ever. "He took me to a room..." I didn't want to tell him this part. He shouldn't have to know it...but it came out anyway. It was important. A crucial detail. "There was a...a swing...."

I had to pause here. My voice wouldn't have carried on anyway. The image flashed before me once again. It was a death trap, plain and simple. The Justin who went into that swing would never be coming out again.

My eyes were closed, shields against the pain that was almost physical, even now. I couldn't bear to look at Brian. Couldn't stand to see the expression of utter horror on his face. The anguish. The sick resignation. But I heard the sharp intake of air, and the quick release of it a moment later. Uneven. Pained. I didn't have to look to know he was crying softly again. How many tears was I going to force him to shed? I hated it. Hated myself for making him hurt. For making him share this pain with me.

My voice broke when I tried to speak. It took two more tries before I was capable again. "He asked me...if I'd ever been in one." I struggled to control the tremors in my tone, but the film strip inside my head wouldn't stop, and once again I watched as it carried me to my fate—the cruel ending of a horror movie. "He said I'd love it. I didn't know what was happening...all these guys just came out of nowhere. It was like they were waiting for me..."

All the willing guys they could have had at that party, all the ones who would have been happy to participate...and they'd chosen me. They'd decided that raping me was better than willing sex with almost any other guy there. But then...what did it matter to them if it was non-consensual? So they had to exert a little extra force...they'd wanted me, for whatever reason...why should it matter to them if they had to make me?

"I told them I didn't want to. Over and over...." I must have said it a million times that night. "They just...wouldn't fucking _listen..." _Ignored me like I wasn't speaking at all. I didn't matter to them. I was just the plaything that Gary had managed to procure for their enjoyment.

Brian, on the other hand, was hanging on my every word. Waiting for more, as horrible as I knew it had to be for him to see this happening inside his head. See it, _know_ it. It gave me the smallest bit of satisfaction to tell him what had happened next.

"I tried to fight...I kicked Sap in the mouth."

A huff of surprise. Almost pleasure. "You did?" he asked, a wondering tone layering his voice. I nodded, daring to peek over at him. Just as I'd expected, he was crying. But the smallest smile—not even a real smile, just his lips turning upward a little on one side—caused something to flare inside me. Not quit delight, not much of anything I could identify...but it felt nice. It felt good to know that he was proud of me. Proud of me for fighting. For resisting with everything I had.

I hated to crush that. But my next words sobered us both up effortlessly.

"I thought they were letting me go after that. I was almost out...I could hear Sap yelling...but I was at the door. And then he told them to grab me...get me back."

It was the moment it had all changed. The second my hope, my relief, my everything—had been ruthlessly ripped from their roots. I took a deep breath and let it out shakily.

"I could feel them all over. I tried to get them off...I just wanted to go home_..._but they wouldn't—wouldn't stop." I let out a quiet sob, unable to choke it back.

"And then...they were taking off my clothes...leading me over to the swing. I think—I hit someone again, but it just pissed them off. And they were...they were laughing at me, touching me.... There were so many...and they were so strong...I couldn't—" I was forced to break off again to collect my bearings. "I couldn't do anything. I tried, but they were just...all _over_ me..." I explained, desperate to make him understand how hard I had fought. How I had refused it, protested until I had nothing left.

"They kept telling me to get in the swing. Pushing me down...and Sap was so pissed that I kicked him.... I kept hoping that maybe...you would save me," I admitted, almost sheepishly. It was precisely that idealistic view that had gotten me into that fucking nightmare. That feeling that nothing could happen to me. That Brian would protect me, or I'd be able to look out for myself. I'd felt too safe, too invincible, despite everything...until then.

I couldn't help but feel a little regretful for mentioning to him how desperate I'd been...just hoping he'd come in and save me. He felt guilty enough already. He didn't need me to shove it in his face that he had been nowhere around when I needed him most. He didn't deserve the blame I knew he'd take upon himself.

"I remember...he hit me. Sap did," I continued. Gary had been furious. Swearing, growling threats at me...then he'd slapped me across the face. I'd been surprised at the pain at first...I hadn't even seen it coming. "He told me that I owed him. He said I hurt him, after he gave me a job, and the time off when I asked for it...and that was how I repaid him. He said it was my turn to give him what he wanted. I was finally getting what I asked for."

"He fucking said that to you?" Brian's voice cut through the memory sharply.

I nodded, still avoiding his gaze.

There was a hiss of air that was halfway between a snarl of disbelief and a sigh. I didn't have to guess at the types of things that were going through his mind. I knew.

I sighed, closing my eyes again. Back inside the memory. Reliving the nightmare.

I could remember trying, even then, to get up. To fight. To run. Just to get out. Get away. But there were too many and they were too strong and I was too weak and slow and useless. "They got tired of trying to hold me down, I guess. They tied my wrists up. I was begging them and fighting and screaming...and I remember seeing him...Sap...he liked watching me cry."

He had loved the blazing fear in my eyes. Relished the desperation in my terrified pleas. Reveled in the sensation of breaking me.

"He wanted to be first," I remembered. "One of them told him to share me...but Sap said they could have me in a minute, I owed him first. He just stood there forever...just letting them touch me, and—and hit me..."Letting them lap at my skin with their slimy tongues. Letting them call me their little whore and tell me how much fun they were going to have fucking me. Letting them torture me while I laid there, helpless.

And Sap had just watched. Watched me beg. Watched me cry. Watched...and smiled.

"I knew what was going to happen. I mean...I knew what they—what he was going to do." It had terrified me because I'd known what was coming, what was so close, and yet I could do nothing to stop it. Less than nothing. I was powerless. "Then...I guess Sap was done watching it. I saw him...I saw him unzip his pants. I was...so fucking scared, I almost threw up." I'd been beyond sick. Beyond terrified. He was going to do it. I had somehow gotten myself in a position where he could do that to me. But I'd refused to think the word. It made it unmanageable. Unbearable to think that it was _that. _That he was about to _rape _me....

"And then he told me I was going to love it, and he—I felt him. It fucking hurt—I think he wanted it to—and all I could do was just lay there and take it. I couldn't make him stop, or...or fight back...I was just...stuck there until he was finished." Watching his face above me. Watching him _enjoy _it...enjoy my rape. Forced to lay there while he used me. Broke me. Laughed and moaned and gasped and sneered while I could only scream and beg and wish for it to be over.

"The worst part...was feeling them cum inside me." I knew I shouldn't have said it. I shouldn't have told Brian that part. But worse than the panic, far worse than the pain, was the disgust. It had made me sick to know that I had had them inside me like that. That I'd been forced to lay there and _feel _them that way. Brian had never even given me that, and then there they were, and there _I _was with part of_ them_ in me.

"I just wanted to...fucking die. I just wanted them gone." I couldn't even describe how it felt when they had refused to come out...out of my mind, out of my skin, out of my memories. Couldn't possibly put the feeling of being irrevocably stained into words that Brian would understand.

"It felt like...it went on forever. I was out of it some of the time, but when I was...you know, _there..._God..." There were no words for it. "I could feel them...it hurt, more than you can even imagine...like they were trying to rip me apart or something." Christ, the pain had been unbearable. More than I'd imagined was humanely possible. My first time had not even hurt like that...Brian had been so gentle.

"They were...fucking my mouth. I couldn't even breathe. Every time I...I thought it was over...they just kept doing it again, and _again..." _It had been endless. Unfathomable. I'd thought it was over after the first time, which was already more than I'd thought I could take...but then there had been more. More men. More seconds and minutes and maybe hours of agony. Raping me over and over until they were satisfied. It had been a game to them. Fun. Entertainment.

"They were hitting me...I don't even remember what they used...it left bruises." I gestured absently along my ribs with my fingertips, as though the black and blue and purple art project still remained. "They just took turns...like I was some kind of fucking _toy..._like I didn't even matter."

I was forced to stop once again to account for my tears, and it was nearly two minutes before I was able to rein them back under my control. I refused to so much as glance in Brian's direction. I didn't want to know if he was still crying.

"The last thing I remember from it was one of them saying something about Gary picking good party favors."

_Gary sure knows how to pick the party favors. You were amazing...such a good little fuck. _

In actuality, I remembered the exact words a lot more clearly than I let on. It was all I had been...a human party favor. That had nearly killed me, once I'd come around again and recalled that particular memory from my murky recollections. It had only confirmed what I was already unable to escape.

"I woke up on the floor. I remember laying there for a while...I was so scared to move...I fucking hurt all over.... But I could hear people talking, so I tried to get up and find my clothes. It was after two then...." During my desperate search for my clothes, I'd stumbled upon a pair of pants, a T-shirt, and a watch, shed by one of the other men at the party. The agonizing search for my clothes and escape was one of the first clear memories I had after I'd woken up, and the time on the digital watch had stuck with me, for some reason. Fourteen minutes after two. There was really no point in remembering the time...it wasn't as though that had been the single minute I'd been attacked. No real reason to remember, nothing notable about the hour...but it had been one of the first concrete things I'd had to hold onto upon waking up, other than the sensation of just feeling wrong all over. I hadn't seen a clock any time soon before the assault, therefore I had no idea how long my time in the swing had lasted. Besides, I was irrevocably biased: it had felt like a lifetime to me.

But fourteen minutes after two...two-fourteen...was the moment I'd realized what had happened to me. When it had become clear. When I finally considered it to be a memory. In my past.

It was the moment I'd realized it was finally _over. _

"I was so scared. And I kept remembering little things..." Particular men. Particular moments. Snippets and flashes of things I didn't want to have in my head. "I remembered—being hit. I could feel that...I hurt all over. I felt like I was on fire. One of them had gotten mad—I was crying, and he didn't like it—so he hit me in the ribs. I had a bruise for weeks. He said it was punishment." Punishment for crying while he tried to force himself down my throat. Like I was supposed to do anything else.

"They kept...telling me how hot I was. Their—their hot little piece of ass, or...their little blond slut, their pretty new toy..." My tone was laced with disgust, and I knew if I looked, I'd see the same expression of contempt on Brian's face. They'd made it clear that I was no more than an object. That I was just there as a _pretty new toy_ for them to fuck. A plaything. Good for nothing except getting them off.

Some days—most days—I wondered if they'd been right.

"I could fucking taste them..." I continued, my face working into a grimace at the memory. "And feel them...all over. It felt like they were still touching me...inside me...on my skin..." That particular feeling had never gone away. Faded, sometimes, with the distractions provided by day to day life. But I could still feel them. Their hands. Their bodies. Feel them all over me. Touching me. Kissing me. I had never figured out how to get past that.

"Somehow...I don't know, I just had to get out. No one saw me...I don't know who was still there, or what they were doing or anything. I just left. The next thing I knew...I was at Daphne's."

I stopped here. He knew what had happened next, or could at least make some highly accurate guesses. I'd shown up at her house over an hour after leaving Sap's place on foot. She'd let me in, demanding to know what the fuck had happened. And I'd told her, sobbing on her couch, wishing I could tear the memories out of my mind, wishing I could go to sleep and wake up and have it all be a nightmare. Anything. Anything but have it be real.

But it _had _been real. I'd fallen asleep with Daphne curled up beside me, neither of us managing to get much sleep that night. I'd woken up the next day desperately needing a shower, needing to scrub the feel of them off of me. It hadn't worked. Nothing had worked. Still wasn't working.

Later that day, after being practically dragged to the clinic to get blood drawn for tests, I'd come home, where Brian had stepped into the picture. He knew how the scene played out from there. He knew the script as we read our lines of my horror film aloud. He'd watched it come alive before us both.

Finally, I opened my eyes. Though my miserable tears and uncontrollable sobs had been regularly interrupting my tortured descriptions for the last fifteen minutes, I doubted I could have exercised enough control over them now to speak another word. I let the tears fall, let the desperate sobs rob me of my breath, a powerful ache building inside my chest as I turned to look at Brian. It was over. I was done. I could fall apart now.

His body was a statue as he stared back at me, his eyes as indecipherable as the rest of him. We simply looked at each other for a moment, silently sharing the pain of the last two months, the entire thing flashing before our eyes. Every moment we had lived through. Every second that had brought us here. From the day after it all, when I'd realized there was no escaping what had occurred, to the weeks and weeks of trying to hide my inner pain from Brian, to the heart-stopping moment when he had put the pieces together for himself...every second of pain that either of us had experienced since the night of that party. Getting my test results back. The rest of the family discovering my secret. Brian finding those drawings in my sketchbook. Sap walking free. The despairing decision to end my own life.

And this.

Doing the impossible. Opening up. Telling him things I'd never before let venture outside of my head.

And at last, the world was allowed to crumble as he finally gave in to the desire to comfort me, his arms folding around me and holding me close to his chest, where I was safe. Where I was, if I permitted myself to hope, _loved. _

And then he was murmuring those three forbidden words one more time before I was gone, fading to black within the safety of his arms, my eyes shut tight against the first golden rays of dawn.


	17. Impossible

**A/N: Sorry for the wait...again. I really wanted to update last weekend, but RL kind of decided to interfere with that. ****At least last chapter wasn't too big of a cliffy, though, was it? It could've been worse ;) Hope this one was worth the wait :)**

**~Brian~**

Spontaneously—simultaneously—everything I had previously held onto so tightly had begun to unravel. It had only taken one night for everything in my life to fall apart, just come undone at the seams. It was almost impossible to believe that just a few hours before, I had been asleep in bed...oblivious to my future, completely ignorant of the fact that every peaceful illusion I'd erected around my life was destined to crumble before the rising sun.

I was huddled on the floor beside the window, Justin in my arms, his cheek cradled against my shoulder as he slept. He had cried for so long that dawn had broken against the pale morning sky before he'd finally drifted off, clutching me tightly, sobs racking his body relentlessly until they'd faded into irregular little jerks of his shoulders. Nothing I said or did could console him...so I'd settled for just holding him and crying with him and hurting with him and hoping it was enough. There was nothing else I could give.

I didn't want to think about the things he'd told me. Just hearing the horrors he had described had felt like a knife being repeatedly thrust into my heart, while a two-ton weight slammed mercilessly into my stomach. It made me sick. It made me furious. It broke me and tortured me and taunted my mind with the cruel truths it wouldn't let me ignore. No matter how desperately I searched, I couldn't find the stop button for the video inside my head. I couldn't stop seeing it. Seeing _him, _Justin, living through that inescapable nightmare. It was like being stuck inside a dream when you're half aware that you're asleep, yet you can't force your eyes open and the psychopath bent on murdering you is approaching with every passing second.

I saw him at that party. I saw Sap offering him that drink. I saw him being led into that room, that fucking torture device...pushing him and touching him and shoving him into it...tying him up so that they could—

I couldn't even find the words to describe what it did to me, the knowledge that they'd done that to him. I didn't think the words even existed...the unadulterated anguish was too powerful to be labeled. No language in the history of the world had the words for that. It was just too much. There were some things that could never be verbalized, too intense and painful and human to be restricted that way, confined to what could be spoken.

He'd been helpless. He'd been tied up and outnumbered and so far beyond powerless that it was amazing he even felt brave enough to open his eyes in the mornings. He'd been forced to endure that hell, forced to lie there with no hope but to wait it out, nothing to do but suffer through it and pray that the next time would be it, that it would all be over.

And the things they'd said to him...no wonder he felt worthless. They'd treated him like a fucking sex toy. An object. Like they _owned _him. Like they had every right to violate his body that way. It killed me inside to know these things, to do so much more than speculate, to see it in my head the way it had happened. There was no imagining, no theorizing, no fictional film strip to torture my thoughts...now it was real. Now it was solid, set in stone. This had happened, it had happened that way...it was irreversible. The things he'd said were what had occurred, what he'd been through, what he'd survived. The things Sap and the others had done and let happen were things that Justin had actually seen and felt and heard firsthand.

I tried not to know them. I tried to just push the echoes of Justin's voice, choked with tears as he recounted his ordeal to me, to the back of my mind until later, when I could deal with it better and decide where to go from there. But I couldn't scrape the images from the inside of my eyelids. Couldn't silence the imaginary reverberations of words I had never heard spoken, but that haunted me just the same. Was this how Justin felt every day of his life?

Unlike Justin, however, if it was indeed the way he was forced to live...I had the misfortune of seeing more than just what his eyes had taken in. I had the displeasure of seeing it through _their _eyes, as well. I could see his beautiful face, twisted in fear, distorted in pain, tears falling uncontrollably as he begged them to stop.

I may have been called a lot of things in my life. Uncaring. Callous. Cold. But any instinctive barrier I presented to the world was nothing compared to the cruel heartlessness of the bastards that could do something like this. I could never even imagine forcing Justin—or anyone—to have sex against their will. To keep going when they said stop. To hold them down and use their body like I was entitled to it. That required a type of evil that extended far beyond simply being somewhat aloof or insensitive.

In all my years of knowing Sapperstein, of disliking him, of being disgusted by him...I'd never imagined he actually possessed that type of cruelty. That he was truly capable of something like this. But when Justin started getting a little too close to him, my instincts a little too wary...I should have known better than to wait around for something to happen. And now something had, and it was too late. He had been allowed the chance, and taken advantage of it. He was the reason Justin had almost not made it to see the dawn breaking outside the window. He was the reason the Sunshine had faded to a pale imitation of its former self. The reason that every day was cloudy, and storms came at regular intervals.

He'd stood there and watched them torture Justin, watched him beg and scream and cry...and done nothing. He'd twisted everything, spewed his venomous comments until Justin was half-convinced that it was _his _fault, that he'd been asking for it by his momentary lapse in judgment...he'd hit him and hurt him and fucking tortured him and liked it. He'd forced himself inside him, made him want to die....

Fiery flames of hatred licked and burned away at the chill I'd been left with ever since leaving the rooftop, overriding everything but the pain and the feeling of Justin in my arms. It forced strength into my body, into every cell, every muscle, every bone...and suddenly the image of Justin's tormented face disappeared, and Sap's was there in its place. Begging. Sobbing. The light leaving his eyes as my fingers closed around his throat, bruising him the way he had bruised Justin. Causing him pain. Making him _hurt. _One way or another, I was going to ensure this future. I was going to kill him. Going to make him suffer the way he had done to the slumbering blond in my arms.

I had done next to nothing to Hobbes. Bashed his fucking knee in, and that was it, while Justin was stuck with months and months of residual trauma and a lifetime of never being quite the same physically. His hand would never fully recover. It hadn't been enough to give Hobbes a few months out of commission—though it had hopefully been a few very painful months. I was fully convinced that Chris would never know true justice until he'd been made to feel every ounce of pain that Justin had survived. Every tear, every painful memory, lost or recovered, every post-traumatic sensation of fear and anger and isolation.

The little asshole had gotten off so easy. But still...I'd hurt him. If I'd caused him any inconvenience at all, it was at least _something. _

Then there was that prick of a judge who had also done next to nothing...even less than I'd done...at least I'd caused Hobbes some fucking _pain. _I'd gotten my own little rebellion, my simple act of retribution against the judge, as well...a few hours of intense discomfort and public humiliation. It hadn't been enough for him, either.

It seemed like the world was out to hurt him, never ceasing until they finally succeeded in permanently extinguishing the sparkle in Justin's eyes. So many people...allowed to just do what they wanted and walk away. Carving a dangerous path of destruction in Justin's life, and then leaving me to pick up the pieces, while none of his agony touched them at all.

What could I do to Sap that would ensure that he suffered? It would never be enough...it would be an act of mercy if I killed him...but what could I do to guarantee that he would be drowning in a world of his own pain? Because he _was _going to pay. Never again was I going to allow someone to cause Justin anguish and walk away from it. Never again would he have to suffer like this. Never again would I be too late, or too far away, or too merciful to the bastards who thought they could hurt him. As long as I was alive, I would protect him with everything I had. He would be safe. I was going to be a fucking boyfriend and defend him, the person I—might as well fucking admit it, at this point—the person I loved.

Loved. Fucking _loved. _I couldn't believe I'd said it. More than once, even. I'd said it, I'd meant it, and I didn't regret it in the least. If it was the reason that Justin was currently sleeping in my arms and not splattered over the fucking pavement, I could never regret it.

But _fuck..._I'd told him. Fucking opened up and spoke the words that I knew were true but had never been able to admit. I'd been begging him for weeks to talk to me, to talk about it all...and somehow I'd ended up with _my _barriers down...the single and final 'fence' that kept him out had been destroyed, and I was spilling everything.

I'll admit, I never saw that one coming.

I was suddenly overcome by the irrepressible urge to say it again. Whisper it into his ear, just to prove that it was real. That I really _could _say it, that the utterly surreal sensation this night had taken on was just an illusion...an effect of the state of shock my brain was in. I needed to break the silence, break the moment, unfreeze time itself. Like a splash of water to my face, I needed it to wake me up, fasten my hold on reality.

So I brushed my lips against his pale forehead, gently combing back strands of blond, and whispered it again.

If anyone would have confronted me about that particularly lesbionic display later on, I would have denied it. Saying it to a Justin that was inches away from taking his life was one thing, letting it fall on the deaf ears of the man in my arms while he slept was quite another.

But still...I couldn't deny the blazing honesty of the words any more than I could up on that rooftop. I exhaled softly into his hair, running my fingers through the silken strands of blond once again.

I'd never imagined that I would be this person. The one that somebody else came to for comfort. The one responsible for someone else's heart, for putting the broken pieces back together when they shattered. Practically his fucking lifeline, the one thing he currently had to hold onto. I wondered what I had ever done to deserve the complete and total trust he seemed so willing to give up to me. What did I know about saving people? I could barely fucking save myself half the time.

Yet here I was, my arms full of Sunshine, wanting nothing more than to take his pain away from him. I'd take it upon myself, if I could. Just drain it from his mind and carry the burden of it for him. I'd give anything, everything...if I could just make him smile, make him laugh...give him back what life had stolen from him. It had become an indisputable truth that his pain automatically translated into _my _pain. Every tear he shed was echoed by me, at least on the inside. Every drop of blood his heart bled, every scream his broken spirit unleashed...I was right there beside him, sharing his every wound, his every ache.

And that, more than anything else, convinced me that my earlier words had been nothing but delayed honesty.

The sky outside the window had lightened to a pale pink; every muscle in my body throbbed with exhaustion. My somewhat bleary eyes fell on the welcoming image of the couch—not quite as far as the bed, nor as cold as near the window, and therefore quite perfect, for the moment.

I considered myself lucky right then that Justin was so comparatively small and light; it wasn't too difficult to shift his weight against me and lift him into my arms. Slowly, so as not to jolt him awake, I carried him over to the couch and set him down. I couldn't help the sudden painful lump swelling in my throat as I watched him curl in on himself, most likely sensing the sudden lack of warmth he'd previously been acquiring from my body...nor could I stop myself from reaching out and trailing my fingers along his tear-stained cheek. He was just so...fragile. He seemed too breakable in that moment, as though touching him with anything but absolute tenderness would cause him to shatter into a million pieces.

For the first time since my eyes had fallen on him as he stood balanced at the ledge of the rooftop, I forced my gaze away from him. Reluctantly, I left him where he was and crept across the loft to the closet, shooting one last look over my shoulder as I did. There was an old blanket of mine that Lindsay or Debbie or someone had gotten me for Christmas one particularly cold winter, and Justin happened to love it. During especially chilly nights, he would drag it from the closet and drape it over the bed, and though I always complained that he stole my half from me during the night, the truth was that I usually just folded it over him while he was asleep.

I was back at his side within seconds, barely being able to stand not having him in my line of sight, not knowing where he was and what he was doing and if he was okay. Any protective urges I'd ever had for him had only increased a hundredfold in the last few hours. If I had been getting on his nerves with my constant security before, he was soon going to despise living with me.

Being careful not to jar him from his peaceful slumber, I shifted and maneuvered his unconscious form until I was lying beside him, the blanket draped over the both of us. And with my arms around him, breathing in his sweet scent, feeling his chest rise and fall against my body—I was almost able to drown out the phantom sounds and images of his desperate face and anguished screams as I joined him in the world of the subconscious.

**~Justin~**

I had no idea what time it was when I opened my eyes. The sky outside was overcast once again, a murky gray, so it was impossible to tell.

It took a moment for the realization of where I was to hit, and then another few seconds to remember why. It came in bits and pieces, flashes and vague snippets...standing on the edge of the roof, preparing to jump...Brian suddenly appearing from nowhere...his arms slipping around me from behind, as he promised that we would deal with everything, that he would help me deal...both of us crying by the window as morning began to stretch across the pale gray sky...the lock that held my tortured secrets inside of me falling open, letting it all out for the first time. The last thing I remembered was being pulled into Brian's embrace, crying into his chest as he held me and soothed me and told me that he loved me.

Oh God. He'd told me he loved me.

He'd said it. The impossible. The forbidden. Those three little words he'd always kept locked away. Had he meant it?

I took a moment to marvel over this new revelation. On one hand, I'd always known on some level that he cared—a lot. After all, hadn't he been regularly contradicting his own words and rules for nearly the entire time we'd been together? I meant something to him, I knew that. Sometimes, I was even sure that he really had crossed the line from simply caring into loving me.

On the other hand, I had been standing on the ledge of a roof, inches away from ending my life. It would be incredibly naive to rule out the possibility that he would have fucking said _anything _if it got me back. If it saved me.

But he'd said it back here, too. He'd whispered it in my ear as I'd cried myself to sleep on his shoulder, trying to lose myself inside his arms. I'd distinctly felt several droplets of something warm and wet against my ear, my head, my neck...his tears as they rolled off his cheeks onto my skin. I knew I'd hurt him with the things I'd told him, the descriptions I'd given. It had to have been impossibly difficult for him to sit there and listen to me as I recounted the experience to him.

But _he_ had told me he loved me. He'd had those words locked behind impregnable steel walls for as long as I'd known him, and suddenly he was tearing them down and letting it all out, the words rushing forth as though he'd removed the dam that had been holding them at bay. He'd reached inside himself and pried them from his mind, released everything just to give me that.

So I'd done the same for him.

So many revelations in one night. So many truths we thought we'd never be able to relinquish.

I wanted to believe what he'd said. More than anything, I wanted to fall back into the knowledge that he cared, that he loved me, and sink into oblivion with him. I wanted to surround myself in the inexplicable comfort of those words and drown in them. I wanted to believe that it could be that easy.

So I let it.

Just this once, I would let it be that easy and believe that maybe he meant it. That he loved me. And as I laid there with him, it wasn't _their _voices or their threats or their laughter I heard in my head. It was Brian's caressive whisper, those beautiful words I never imagined I'd get to hear. It was almost unbelievable, so much more than I'd learned to ask for from him. And right when I'd given up, right when I'd accepted defeat, he'd shocked me to the core and said it.

I continued to lay there for a while, just listening to him breathe, my body rising and falling with the rhythmic movements of his chest. I allowed my eyes to drift close again, tucking my head under his chin, and tried not to think about the rest. The things I'd said to him. What I had almost done to him...to myself...to everyone. It exhausted me completely just remembering it. Could I possibly have hurt him _more? _And all in one night?

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, and a tear leaked out and rolled down my cheek into his shirt. I didn't want to remember that part. I didn't want to remember any of the rest of it, just those three little words. But I couldn't ignore it. As much as I wanted to, it was impossible to pretend that last night hadn't happened. That I hadn't tried to kill myself. That I hadn't told Brian about that party. That the ache inside of me hadn't intensified, and wasn't burning a hole inside my chest at this very moment. Still crying softly, I tangled my fingers in his shirt, then lightly in his hair, as I tried to forget, just push it all down.

It didn't work.

I was, quite honestly, shocked that he hadn't just told me to go to hell. When he'd brought me back to the loft, I'd been sure that he would yell and rage and make sure that I knew what a selfish prick I was for what I'd attempted to do. Fuck knew that I deserved it. And if it wasn't enough that I'd tried to kill myself while he slept in the loft below my feet, I'd had to torture him with my words, as well. Admittedly, he had been begging me to do it for weeks, but I hated the idea of causing him pain. And he had just sat there and taken it all...how could he be so fucking selfless? It made me angry that he could be, because that meant that I had become the person who he had to be selfless for. It meant that I had become the one who hurt him. Could I really have done it? If Brian hadn't stopped me when he did, would I really have jumped?

I knew the answer, and it scared me that I'd come so close.

Inches. I'd been _inches _away from freedom. And I'd wanted it so much. More than anything. The wind in my hair, tears blurring my vision, prepared to give it all if that was what it took...if it gained me relief.

But I didn't want it at that cost. I didn't know how or why or where I had gone wrong, but my plan was done the second I'd heard Brian calling my name. I couldn't have done it with him standing there, couldn't have made him watch that. For the second time since I'd known him, Brian Kinney had saved my life.

And part of me was angry for that. Furious, that he had stopped me when I'd been so close to the relief that had eluded me for months. I was still here, still hurting, still drowning, thanks to him.

But the other part of me, the part that relished the feel of his steady heartbeat beneath my cheek, _was _relieved. Relieved that there was at least one more day, one more minute that I could spend with him. I had never wanted to die, really...I'd just wanted to stop the pain. There was a difference.

But he wouldn't allow it. As long as he was alive, he'd do everything in his power to ensure that I was, too. My fucking hero. As long as he was here, he'd never let me go.

**~Brian~**

It was early afternoon by the time Justin started to stir in my arms. I hoped he'd at least slept well; he barely got any sleep these days...he deserved a few hours of much-needed rest.

Finally, he lifted his head off my chest and looked up at me, all bleary blue eyes and muddled confusion.

"Hey," I said softly, though there was no real reason to whisper, just some intangible air of delicacy that was impossible to pin down.

"Brian," he murmured back. To my displeasure, little pools of tears had already begun to gather in his eyes, giving them a glassy sort of appearance. Unable to help myself, I reached up to brush his hair back from his face, tangling my fingers in the strands and letting them brush against his porcelain cheek. "What time is it?" he asked quietly.

"A little after noon, I think." It was hard to tell, what with the cloudy sky and the lack of sufficient sleep during the night, but early afternoon seemed a reasonable guess.

He nodded, his grip on my shirt sleeve tightening, and just stared at something apparently fascinating on my left shoulder.

"You okay?" I asked, quite as uncertain as he was in all of this. Were there rules of etiquette for these types of situations? Somehow, I doubted it. It was all so fucking much to take in, so hard to believe it hadn't all been some elaborate hellish nightmare. It seemed nothing short of amazing that the unbridled fear and panic and horror and everything else that had been so violently ripping me apart last night could result in this...an overcast morning that was ordinary in every way, but for the events of the night before.

He took a shaky breath, his glistening eyes meeting mine, and suddenly his answer wasn't necessary. His fingers twisted themselves even tighter in my shirt, and I reached up to cover his hand with mine. It seemed appropriate to say _something, _but I wasn't sure how to broach the topic, of either the rooftop or what had occurred by the window. Fuck, where did we even begin?

"I—" he began, his eyes shifting away from mine. He took a deep breath and let it out, biting his lower lip momentarily to stop its sudden quivering. "I'm sorry. For—"

"Shh," I told him, reaching up to pull his head gently back down to rest against my shoulder. I didn't want his apologies. They were worthless now.

"But—" he tried again.

"Justin," I cut him off. "It won't make any difference. It's over." A pathetic little sniffle was my only answer.

"So...what do we do, Sunshine?" I asked, trying without success to keep the quaver out of my voice.

I was lost. More than lost. I had been picked up and dropped off in the middle of nowhere overnight, and everything that had once carried the slightest sense of familiarity was gone. No comfort. No relief. Nothing. It was all a blur of pain and panic and confusion...nothing to hold onto. My brain could barely process any of it.

The things he'd said to me, the things he'd told me about...he had to do something about it...those horrors, those memories...he couldn't keep them locked inside his head. Even sharing them with me wasn't enough. I still hadn't given up on the therapy idea, not at all. He needed something. _I _needed to know that he was getting help, that he was moving forward rather than standing steadfast in his misery. We were both exhausted, and not only physically. We had to do something, because neither of us could take one more second of this hell.

It was as though a veil of some sort had settled between my emotions and my logical thought process. My emotions, behind the thin wall, were crazed. Incomprehensible. Every revelation, every second of fear and pain, every staggering moment last night had brought on...it was all there, clashing violently against the inside of my skull, making it ache and throb against my closed eyelids.

Then there was the logic. The calm, reasonable side of the veil. Trying to piece together what had happened. Trying to make sense of it. Trying to decide where to go, what to do now. How to get back to where we were and push forward from there. What to do about Justin, what to do about Sap, how to fucking _deal _with this...it was a puzzle. Pushing the shapes together and trying to make them fit.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice so soft that it barely penetrated either side of my veil at all.

Absently, hardly realizing what I was doing, I reached up to stroke his hair while he continued to soak my shirt with tears. I wondered idly which of us had cried more in the last night: me or him. It had just been a night for tears all around, I supposed; I hadn't had such a complete and total breakdown since...actually, I don't think I ever have until this point. Nothing like last night, anyway. Nothing had ever hurt that much.

"You tried to fucking kill yourself," I stated, my voice somewhat rougher than I had intended. It sounded husky and aggravated, and only as I spoke the words did I realize that the tone wasn't too far off the mark. "What, are we supposed to just move on like it never happened?"

"I thought...you said it was over..." he said after a moment of what I assumed was stunned silence.

"I said 'sorry' won't make any difference. I didn't mean this whole fucking _thing _was over." How could it be? How could I just be expected to forget it like it never happened? How could I let him out of my sight anymore without being terrified that he would try something? Fucking _how _were we supposed to do any of this? It felt like I'd been blindfolded, had my hands tied behind my back, stuck out in the middle of a maze, and told to find my way out. "You scared the fucking shit out of me."

"I didn't mean to," he said quietly, sniffing again.

"Well, you fucking did, Justin," I snapped. "So now what am I supposed to do? Drag you around and not let you leave my sight? How do I know you wouldn't do it again the second I turn my back?" I shot at him.

His body tensed at my harsh words; I hadn't bothered to deliver them gently. I wasn't sure where the sudden anger was coming from, but it was powerful, and it wasn't bothering to restrain itself.

How dare he try to take himself away from me? Didn't he realize how many people he would have hurt had he gone through with it? Didn't he know that it would have killed me? That it would have torn me open and ripped me to pieces? Every ray of light that had illuminated my world since the day I'd met him would have been extinguished, plunging me into unfathomable darkness, lost to it all. Didn't he know how terrified I was of being forced back into the dark world I had been living in before he had come along? Didn't he realize that I needed him just as much, if not more, than he needed me? Didn't he fucking know _any_ of this?

Of course he didn't. Because I had never told him.

"I wouldn't...I won't," he insisted feebly. "I promise..."

"That's what you fucking said when I found those drawings," I spat truthfully. All that bullshit, spoken just to assuage me. I'd been cautiously hopeful...not ever really daring to believe him, but _wanting _to. And last night, I had been proven right: trusting him would have been a mistake.

"You swore to me you wouldn't try anything, Justin, and then I find you on the fucking roof...." I couldn't finish, at least not out loud, but the mental video played on. A dark shadow, illuminated by moonlight and the soft glow of the city, hanging in the balance between everything and nothing at all. Nothing but what he was leaving behind, the gaping wound he was tearing in the hearts of so many people.

He didn't answer. I wasn't sure what I could say, what I could do. I was utterly helpless...nothing either of us said would ever be enough to placate my fears...it would remain a constant lurking presence in the back of my head until—I didn't even know. Maybe forever. It would always be there. Every day of my life, I'd have to worry that he would have had enough to try and end his. Every second that either of us existed, I'd be terrified that he would slip, lose his grip on hope and light and the desire to be here, to live...and fall.

"Do you even realize how bad you would have fucked everyone up if you'd jumped? Your mother, your sister, Debbie, Daphne..." _Me._

"I _know!" _he cried suddenly, his voice breaking with anger and pain and I didn't even know what else. "I _know."_

"Then how the fuck could you do it?!" I demanded. That was what I wanted to know. How could he fucking _do_ that to me? How could he even think about leaving me now?

Maybe the same way I'd tried so many times to leave him. To just be done with him. To quit him. It had never worked, and then it had gotten to the point where I didn't really even_ want_ it to work anymore. Somehow, he had fit himself into a space in my life that had not only been previously unfulfilled, but had never even existed in the first place before he came along. He had carved his own special place by my side, created something new and amazing that I never would have dreamed possible. I had always had a friend in Lindsay, a companion in Mikey, a mother in Debbie...but I had never had what I did with Justin. A partner? A lover? A boyfriend? My fucking other half? What did that make him?

It made him too much—that much was for certain. It made him practically everything to me, something that I didn't want to exist without. It made him something vital, and taking him away now would be like sawing off my own arm. And he had fucking handed me the knife last night.

"What, did you think we'd all just get the fuck over it and be fine?" I demanded. "Do you have any idea what it would have done to me, you selfish little shit?" Selfish. I'd called _him _selfish. It was cruel—and untrue.

It was beyond anything I could put words to, the terrors he had experienced. He'd had everything inherently _him _brutally stolen from him in a single night. He'd been tortured. Traumatized. Raped. Repeatedly. And he'd been looking for a way out while the suffocating walls of his own mind continued to close in on him. Could I blame him for that? For slipping through the only escape he saw?

Yes. I could.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair to blame him for just wanting his pain to end. His body gave a lurch on top of mine, but I was in too much agony of my own to feel particularly merciful. He had tried to kill himself. Tried to take away the Sunshine and leave me with storms for the rest of my miserable fucking life. No matter how powerful his pain, he had chosen relief over me. He had, albeit indirectly, tried to drag me over the edge of the building with him, the edge of everything.

And I was fucking angry.

"It would have killed me, Justin." It was harsh. It was horrible to say to him, to make him feel even guiltier, but _Christ..._he'd expected me to deal with that? He'd honestly expected me to have to deal with his death? I remembered what had been involved after my father had died, the way my idiot sister had fallen apart...but that was different. Way different. That was my asshole of an abusive father. This was _Justin. _How could he expect me to have to...to have to bury him? Because it would have been me, and probably his mother...holding his funeral, packing up his things for friends and family, watching them lower him into the ground, saying good-bye to him forever. Knowing that as he'd stood up on that roof and decided to end it all, I had been asleep just under his feet.

He'd honestly expected me to deal with that.

"Didn't you think about that? Did you think about who would have been the one calling fucking funeral homes, and giving away your shit? _Did_ you?" I snapped when he didn't even have the decency to reply.

Had he? Had he thought about the fact that I would have spent every fucking day of my life living in agonizing regret? Had he thought about how impossibly difficult it would have been to smother out his memory, to let it die along with him? To bury it deep inside where I wouldn't have to think about it? The could haves, the would haves, the should haves.... Had he considered the pain he would have left me to live with, while he chose the easy way out?

"I didn't know what to _do, _okay?!" he yelled back at me, finally pulling himself together enough to force out more than his desperate sobs. He had finally snapped, and was snapping back. I had finally pushed him far enough to get a rise out of him. Good. I wanted answers. I wanted to hear what he had to say for himself. "You heard what they did to me...you _know..._why can't you _get it?!"_

I wasn't sure what it was...the pain in his voice, or the words themselves...but suddenly the image flashed through my mind of his ghostly pale face, streaked with tears, speaking softly as he recounted the horror he'd been forced to live through—the terrible things he'd had to endure that were nothing less than inhuman, and all the fight seemed to drain out of me, leaving me even more exhausted than before, if that was possible. Despite the six solid hours of sleep, if my estimate of early afternoon was correct, I had never been wearier. I felt as though I'd lived an extra thirty years in the space of one night.

I clutched him even tighter to my body; if I hurt him with the desperate force, he didn't say a word. My face crumpled as my own tears got the best of me, and I twisted my fingers tightly in the strands of blond I'd been playing with, holding him right where he belonged.

"I get it enough," I said coarsely, my voice coming out all choked and wrong. "But don't you dare fucking leave me, you little twat." I was whispering now, still angry but more desperate than anything, any trace of ire in my voice gone, replaced with pain, my now constant companion, trailing me more faithfully than a shadow. I wondered if he could hear the poorly concealed _I love you _in my words, in the tone that bordered on pleading. Maybe he needed to hear it again. If it helped, if it made him think twice about doing something stupid sometime in the future...it was worth every word. I would tell him that I loved him as many times as he wanted to hear it if it kept him here. I braced myself to say it again; if that was what he needed, it was a small price to pay. Almost nothing...just a bit of honesty.

"I didn't want to leave you...." he began, interrupting my efforts.

"I know," I said truthfully. Whatever had been going through his mind, however stupid and reckless and selfish he had been, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had not _wanted _to leave me...his pain had just been momentarily stronger. However, the end result was the same. He would have been gone, either way.

"I love you," he said after a moment.

"I know," I said again. A beat of silence. "You too." It was quiet for a while but for his occasional sobs into my shoulder. I wondered if he would ever be able to cry this out...I wanted it gone. I was done watching him cry, feeling sobs rack his frame as he shuddered against mine. It hurt to see him in pain, watching the pure misery seeping from every curve and crevice of his body. It made a little piece of me die for each moment I was forced to witness it.

"Justin."

"Yeah?" he asked, his gentle artists' fingers stroking the bare skin of my arm, in what I assumed was supposed to be a gesture of comfort, of reassurance, keeping us connected. Keeping him grounded, tied here in this reality where I could still wrap my arms around him and hold him close.

More worthless words. They wouldn't change a thing, but they were all I could give him at this point. I had no idea what to say anymore. I had no idea how I was supposed to handle the things he had told me last night. Were we supposed to talk more about them? Or simply take them for what they were, bury them away, and move on?

Once again, I settled on truth. Because however worthless, however ineffective, the words were at least honest.

"I'm sorry," I said simply.

"For what?" he sounded confused.

"For what happened to you," I clarified quietly. "All the shit they did...the stuff they said to you..." For everything. For not doing more to stop it. For it happening in general. It was pointless to focus on the same old sorrows that had been plaguing my mind for months, but the apologies and regrets just kept pushing to the front of my mind. All I could think, all I had room for. All I could possibly say to him.

"It wasn't _your _fault," he said, sounding just a little defensive, on my behalf. I wasn't up for another fight about who deserved the blame. Because the truth was that we could go around blaming anyone and everyone....me, him, the whole fucking Goddamned world. But it didn't change the fact that Gary Sapperstein and those other bastards had drugged him, forced him into that fucking _thing,_ and tormented him to their hearts' content. I could have done more to stop it. He could have chosen to avoid the party altogether. But the fact remained that neither of us had asked for this to happened. Neither of us had wanted it.

It was _their _fault. Maybe I was finally realizing what that really meant.

"I'm still sorry." And I was. Even if I wasn't entirely to blame, I was still sorry that it had happened. Still sorry that he'd been made to suffer through that.

Another little sniffle. "Yeah. Me too," he whispered. I wondered if he'd had that moment yet. That weightless second of realization. Of course, he was probably in too much pain to think about it like that...he was probably still too ashamed and disgusted to really know that it was not his fault. That he hadn't asked for it. That the blame lied with them and them alone. He needed to know that. One day, when our pain had dulled and faded and opened up the necessary room for healing, I would ensure that he did.

I pressed my lips to the top of his head, then to his forehead, then to the top of his ear...all the while wondering if I could possibly say anything that was more un-me than I already had in the last twenty-four hours. _I love you...I'm sorry..._ Things I hated saying. Things that made me cringe. And I would say them all again, tell him that I loved him and needed him and that I was sorry every day for the rest of our lives if it made any difference.

"Do you...want to talk about it?" I offered awkwardly. Honestly, it would kill me to have to discuss it again, to have to hear anymore, but I would do it a hundred times over if it helped Justin at all, if it eased his pain just a little. Whatever helped him, if he needed to recount it all, go into details, torture me until I wanted to rip my ears out of my head just to stop it...I'd do anything at this point.

He shook his head. "I just...want to _forget _it."

Of course he did. He'd been trying, unsuccessfully, to_ 'forget it' _for the past several months. But it wasn't going away. Things like this never went away, these dark and ugly stains...they could never be scrubbed from your memories completely, could never be completely forgotten or ignored. But you learned to deal. You learned to look at them every day and never quite turn away, never really draw your eyes from the blemishes...but you looked, saw them, acknowledged their presence, and moved on. You learned to live _with_ them, instead of letting them control your life.

"Well, obviously, that's not working, Justin," I said. My tone was gentle, but I was bursting with desperate frustration at the utter redundancy of this argument. It was like asking an asserted vegetarian if they'd be interested in ordering a hamburger. "You need help...we _both _need help. Let's just...try it my way. Just one session with a therapist. It's all I'm asking." Just one. Just a little hope, a little help. Just a chance of salvation to latch onto instead of waiting for the situation to fix itself.

"I don't want to talk to some stranger," he said. It didn't surprise me in the least that his body was suddenly tense again in my arms, his tears more pronounced than ever in his voice. "I can't. I told you...I don't want to go."

Fuck, I was so sick of hearing that. I was so tired of this endless give-and-take with him, so through with watching him in pain and not being able to do a thing about it. "Look...I'll do everything I can. I _am _doing all I can. But I don't know...how to get you through this, Justin. I just...don't fucking know." There. Plain truth. He couldn't ignore it.

"Just be here," he replied softly, his shoulders going even more rigid when I snapped at him almost before the words were out of his mouth.

"I've _been _here," I pointed out roughly. "I haven't gone anywhere, but you're still..."

"What, fucked up?" he demanded., his voice suddenly quite as harsh as mine. "A fucking emotional wreck?"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," I said bitterly. "You...thinking like that. You're still hurting. You still feel them all the time, you said so yourself. You need to start trying to get past that, Justin. You can't keep feeling like this."

"How can I _not?" _he asked, the last word coming out as a sob. "How do I fucking not remember what it felt like? They were...all _over _me...they wouldn't _stop._ How do I not remember that, Brian?"

I sighed. "That's what the therapist is for, Justin. I don't know." I didn't have the answers for him. I didn't know how to make him stop feeling that, feeling them. "What will it take?"

"What?"

"What will it take...to get you to go?" I elaborated. "I'm not fucking going through this again. I can't. So what's it going to take to get you to go?"

"_Why?" _he demanded. It was a genuine question...he wasn't just arguing for the sake of arguing. It wasn't just a counterattack. Not this time. "Why do I have to go? I talked to you...isn't that enough?

"You tell me."

His silence said it all.

**~Justin~**

It wasn't long before my traitorous stomach decided to broadcast its physical discomfort by growling loudly. I was exhausted—between the emotional roller-coaster I'd been strapped onto and the poor night's sleep, I could barely keep my eyes open. But when Brian heard the discontented grumbling of my stomach, he suggested that we get up and eat something. Reluctantly, I climbed off of him and made my way to the kitchen, him at my heels.

"What do you want?" he asked. I shrugged; I wasn't used to deciding on my own meals. He usually just prepared my favorites for me and forced me to eat them. He set to work fixing something...I didn't bother to watch to find out what it was. I didn't care; he knew what I liked. I sat down at the table, my shoulders slumped with exhaustion, my head in my hands.

"Brian..." I muttered after a few minutes. He looked over at me, away from whatever he was busying himself with over by the stove. "Do you...are you pissed?"

I felt pathetic asking. I felt even more pathetic when my voice broke halfway through. But he had to be angry. I _deserved _for him to be. Everything was just spinning out of my control, so much at once, so much in one night. I couldn't even attempt to keep up with it all. I was going to go into shock...my brain was just going to shut down. I couldn't take it. Attempting suicide, talking to Brian, hearing him say he loves me...everything I never thought I'd actually see happen, had all happened within a two-hour time frame.

Where did we go from here? It felt...wrong. Even breakfast seemed like just a desperate facade—an attempt at normalcy, while both of us were so obviously still reeling. It was just like waking up on the floor at the party...too much to deal with. Too much to try to cram it all into my head and force it to register, like pulling up a dozen different programs on a computer and expecting it to run them all flawlessly at once.

Maybe it would be easier if I just shut down and woke up during a time that wasn't so mixed up and painful. Maybe I could just be granted the relief of shutting off, going on standby or something until this didn't hurt so much to attempt to deal with.

He looked at me for a moment, considering my question. "It was fucking stupid."

I dropped my head. "I know."

He was pissed. Of course. But as much as I knew that I deserved it, I couldn't help the sensation of self-deprecation that washed over me at his tone, his expression...I had hurt him. I had broken his trust in me.

I had let him down.

Suddenly, he was at my shoulder, his long fingers tangling themselves in the hair at the back of my neck, causing unexpected goosebumps to shoot down my spine.

"I just want..." he let out a low breath, and my heart hammered against my ribs while I waited for him to finish his sentence. "I want for you to be okay."

And Christ, he sounded so fucking..._vulnerable._ Without the anger, without the frustration in his tone that I'd heard so clearly earlier on the couch...he was just as broken as I was.

My eyes were filling with tears again. I prayed that they would stop, at least for now, in front of Brian. But then he took me in his arms once again, and with my face buried against him, fit snugly against his body, that simple desire became a distant wish; it was impossible to hope that I could hold them back in a moment like this...with the world crumbling to pieces outside the bubble we had momentarily slipped inside, held standing only by our unbreakable grasp on the other. So safe, so loved...held in the arms of my protector, the ghostly touches of my living nightmare fading with the warmth of his embrace, turning everything right side up, just for a second.

It didn't last nearly long enough, and soon Brian was forced to disentangle himself from my arms to go attend to whatever he was fixing on the stove. I watched him carefully, not missing the obvious exhaustion in his usually graceful movements. He had to be tired, too. Maybe we could take a nap later. Drifting off, surrounded by his familiar scent, his arms locked tight around me, was the most relaxing therapeutic technique I'd ever known. There was something incredibly soothing about giving into the persuading depths of exhaustion while curled so securely against him.

It turned out that he had prepared us a plate full of scrambled eggs. I never really considered them to be a lunch-food—and it seemed to be around lunchtime—but both of us were still in morning mode. We sat and ate together without saying a word, both of us trying to turn a forcibly blind eye to the elephant in the room that was currently smashing every carefully woven structure that we had ever built. Brian was right: this wasn't over. Far from it. We still had a long way to go...me, him, us. I still had issues that I couldn't deal with. He still didn't trust me. And neither of us were sure where to go from here.

After breakfast or lunch or whatever the fuck it was, Brian called Cynthia to clear his schedule for the day. I sighed; once again, he was sacrificing for me. Though I supposed I wasn't really surprised...he wouldn't be leaving me alone for a long, long time. He'd just padlocked the metal fence he'd already had surrounding me these last few weeks. There was no escaping. I was trapped.

I wasn't sure what to expect for the rest of the day. Would we sit and watch TV and pretend everything was fine? Or would he want to talk? Personally, I was hoping for the former. I had less than no desire to talk about any of this. I'd told him so much last night...details...specifics...wouldn't that be enough? I didn't think I could handle any more. It already felt like I should be clutching my chest in agony while my world exploded around me. It seemed unnatural that all around us, things were so normal, while everything in our lives was falling apart. Amazing, that the earth could freeze for just two individuals at once and keep spinning for the rest.

While Brian talked to Cynthia, I began clearing up our breakfast. While I stood at the sink and scrubbed Brian's over-expensive plates free of scrambled egg, I contemplated maybe having a quick shower. That was, if Brian would even allow it. After last night, he would probably insist on sitting outside the shower door and monitoring me the entire time. What the fuck had I gotten myself into with him? I had practically given him license to be my personal lifeguard for the rest of fucking forever.

Brian barked something resembling a goodbye over the phone, and then at once he was at my side, turning off the water and handing me a towel. I looked up at him, confused.

"We'll get it later," he said firmly, pressing the towel into my hand. "I want to talk to you."

As slowly as possible, I dried off my hands and left the dishes in the sink, allowing him to pull me into the living room, wondering precisely what it was that he wanted to talk about.

I sat nervously beside him, wringing my hands, fidgeting nervously, unable to hold still. He, on the other hand, sat doing an incredibly convincing imitation of a statue, hands clasped together, eyes closed, apparently deep in thought. He spent a good deal of time not looking at me, bracing himself, starting sentences only to cut them short...before asking the very last thing I'd wanted to hear.

"Is there...anything else? That you want to tell me about...about the party? Or...anything you want to talk about at all?"

Actually, I'd have rather just screamed.

Of course, there were a few things I'd left out. Vague memories that I couldn't find words for if I'd tried. A few particularly horrible parts that I'd kept to myself. He didn't need to know them.

But he wanted to.

"Brian..." I started, closing my eyes wearily. Why? _Why _did he have to ask this?

"I want all of it, Justin," he said firmly. "Whatever you remember."

"I told you last night," I pointed out. "I told you what happened."

"Was that everything?" he prompted. My eyes were shut tight, but I could practically see his eyebrow creeping up his forehead in skepticism.

"You can't handle everything," I whispered, trying to hold back the wetness behind my closed eyelids. "You have no idea..."

"Then tell me."

And so he listened as, between gasps and sobs and endless tears shared between us, I told him_ everything._ Told him all I remembered...every guy I could recall, every comment they'd spewed, the pain, the fear...everything that had occurred until the moment I'd woken up on the floor.

And some of it fucking tore me apart. I wasn't sure how I even managed to speak when all I wanted to do was scream and run and cry and bleed. Just stop existing for a few seconds, if it meant a refuge from the memories he was forcing up. Terrible things. Terrifying things, and he was making me see them and hear them and feel them again. Making me talk about how it felt, and not just physically. Making me admit that I'd been scared beyond anything I've ever known. That it had made me sick to know what was happening. Every detail of the torture I'd been helpless to prevent.

He wanted it all. And I gave it to him.

I sat beside him with my head in my hands; twice, he had to gently untangle my fingers from my own hair when they started gripping too tightly and pulling at the chunks of blond. It was an automatic reaction of mine...I was screaming on the inside, and I didn't know how to handle it. Physical pain was far easier to deal with.

I supposed we needed it to happen. Needed it all out there, but why did it have to be so fucking difficult? Why did it have to hurt so _much? _And it didn't get easier. We talked for what felt like hours, but every word still hurt as much as the first. It was all still there. The memories that had never stopped torturing me were still burning me away inside. The filthy sensation that was always just under my skin still hadn't disappeared. But there was one difference now.

I wasn't alone in it all. Brian was here.

He sat with me the entire time, his hands kneading soothing patterns into my tense back and shoulders, telling me that it was okay, that it was over, that I was safe with him now. But I wasn't. Maybe in the physical sense, I was well away from danger of any sort, but mentally, my nightmare still existed. A nightmare he wanted to share. Pain he wanted to help me bear.

Because he loved me.

**~Brian~**

I didn't know if it was the right thing to do, if it was the correct way to go about this. But I wanted it all out, everything in the open. I was done with the secrets between us...I needed to know everything. Or rather, he needed to_ tell_ everything. I certainly did not want to fucking know any of it. He needed to get it all out, and I was willing to listen, but_ Christ,_ hearing some of the shit he'd gone through that night....

But I ignored my pain, at least for the moment, and concentrated on not falling apart. Concentrated on being there, holding his hand, hugging him and comforting him when it was all over. And then we talked some more. We talked about the way he was feeling now. We talked about his nightmares (not much better), his art (still dark, still tainted with _it)_ therapy (he still didn't want to go—I still insisted on it). Hours. The clouds had begun to clear outside, with the result that we could just see a sliver of golden sun by the time it began to set. We'd needed this. Just a day to sit and talk. It was a breakthrough; there was no denying that. I just hoped it would be enough to start turning our lives around.

Speaking of turning lives around...something was going to have to be done. If Sapperstein thought he was walking away from the law, if he thought he was walking away from justice...he had another fucking thing coming. I didn't know how, and I didn't know when, but he was going to pay. I would have relished the physical act of actually killing him...and it didn't phase me at all that I would have done it in a second if I thought I could get away with it. I wanted to see him suffer, though landing myself in prison for first degree murder didn't seem like a particularly satisfying conclusion.

And even if I went in just to hurt him—this rage, this fury—it was powerful. I knew myself well enough to know that I wouldn't be able to stop. I would start by punching the living shit out of him, and end up with my hands cuffed behind my back being lead into a police car while Sap was shoved into a body bag. I had to think about this logically. Even if I couldn't physically lay a finger on Sap...well, there had to be other ways to cause him pain, right? What would be the most devastating thing I could do to him? Exposing him as a rapist wouldn't do much good. For one thing, it seemed that most people already knew, if it was going through the grapevine. Wasn't that how I'd found out about Justin in the first place? I couldn't do much more there.

I supposed I could turn him in for all the fucking drugs he snorted and shot himself up with and whatever the fuck else he had going on. It would definitely mean some serious jail time, wouldn't it?

But what _else? _How did he get away with all this shit? He must have some pretty fucking powerful friends...it was the only conclusion I could come up with. What would be so horrible that even _they _wouldn't bail him out? Or maybe I was going about it all wrong. Maybe I had to draw them into it, too. There had to be something that was big enough that it couldn't be simply blown over. But what? It was time to do a little investigating.

But for now, I had other matters to contend with. Sunshine matters. I was still convinced that therapy would help him, at least more than I could. The irony was simply screaming at me. I hated talking. I hated therapists. I hated everything to do with either one, and yet I was trying to force him into going. No wonder he didn't seem to take the idea seriously. I never had. What did this look like to him?

On the other hand,_ if_ I could convince him to go, would it even be enough? What else could I do for him? Was I going to have to monitor his every breath until I was sure that he would be okay? I couldn't afford to slip up for even a second. Not when the price might be losing him forever. But how did I stop the nightmares? How did I help him grow comfortable with being touched again? How did I help him stop feeling _them_ all the time? Would therapy really be enough for all of that?

I had promised him that I would help him. That we would get through it, deal with it all together. I had promised him, and I planned on upholding that vow. It was more important now than ever.


	18. Reason

**~Justin~**

Brian always kept his promises.

He promised, that day so long ago when I'd told him about my treatable disease...that a week from then, a month from then, he would still be there. Still be with me. And he was.

He promised that we would deal with all of this. That he would help me through it. Up on that rooftop, he'd promised me everything I needed to hear. And he was trying.

He promised that therapy wouldn't be so horrible. That I was scared over nothing. That it would all be okay if I just went through with it. I was convinced that this was the only lie he'd ever told me.

He'd been building up to it for days. Preparing me, preparing himself. He gave me a list of therapists to pick from, ones that specialized in sexual assault. He'd done his research, and they all seemed to be perfectly qualified, though I drew a big 'x' through one named Gary. I was sure Brian hadn't even been thinking about that, but I couldn't ignore it. I didn't want one with my rapist's name.

As I sat and looked over the various names and numbers and qualifications and shit, I noticed something. Separated at the third letter, the word _therapists _could be divided to spell _the rapists. _It was the ridiculously uncomfortable type of coincidence that Brian would have shrugged off as nothing, so I tried to do the same, though it didn't help my nerves much.

Finally, I narrowed it down to two. A man and a woman. I wasn't sure which it would be easier to talk to about this kind of thing. Their rates per hour, though Brian assured me that this didn't matter, were pretty much the same, so that didn't help much in my decision. I knew he wouldn't allow me to avoid scheduling an appointment just because of my apparent inability to choose a therapist, however, so eventually I just chose the woman. I wasn't sure why. Maybe because of her last name. _Chanders. _The same as Daphne's.

The office was closed for the weekend, so Brian scheduled my appointment for Monday morning. Ten o'clock. No wait—not _my _appointment, according to him—_our _appointment. He would be with me the entire time, and there were a few things he wanted to talk about with Kathy Chanders too, he said. I wondered what kind of things he was going to ask her about. When would I be okay to have sex, probably. We were going on three months now, and the most action he'd seen from me was the night of the one month anniversary of the party, when I'd had my complete meltdown and ran off to Michael's house. I cringed inwardly at the memory.

Since the night on the roof, we had become even more inseparable than usual. He, it seemed, couldn't keep his hands off me for a second. He was constantly tugging me close to him, or kissing my cheek, or stroking my hair...and whenever we watched TV together, he'd put his arm around me and hold my hand. There was a time when this would have meant practically nothing. Neither of us had ever been able to keep our hands to ourselves, not around each other, but our physical affection had become considerably limited after the party.

It was comfortable, though. It didn't freak me out to be kissed and hugged and touched. Once or twice he had come up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, and it had startled me...and a few times I'd had to pull away while he was kissing me, but for the most part, we were doing pretty well. It felt—nice—to know that I was still wanted.

Over the weekend, he insisted on talking. As if it wasn't enough that I had told him every fucking thing I could remember, every memory that made me want to scream...he wanted more. He wanted practically minute-by-minute reports on how I was feeling. He wanted detailed descriptions of my nightmares. He wanted to know everything. It wasn't unusual for both of us to end up crying during these talks—me typically harder than him—but he would shed the occasional tear, too. Every time I hesitated, or told him that I didn't want to talk about it, he just replied that he wanted it all in the open. That I would feel better when I wasn't the only one seeing the images or hearing the voices inside my head. And in some ways, he was right. Though it killed me to have to hurt him like that, to have to go through it all in my head, there were no words for the way it felt when he would wrap his arms around me, whispering in my ear and stroking my hair and all those little gestures of his that made me feel so safe. Because I wasn't alone. Not anymore. I never thought just having someone know what I knew could feel that good.

In other ways, though, things were still as difficult as ever. Just because we spent a weekend talking things over didn't mean that the memories stopped hurting, that I was miraculously recovered. There were no overnight cures for this kind of thing. Well, maybe the one, but even if I could've brought myself to try it again, Brian had barely let me out of his sight in three days. I wasn't even allowed to fucking piss in private. I was surprised he hadn't forced Michael or Daphne or someone to come over so that they could sleep in shifts and spend the rest of the time breathing down my neck.

Any time the thought even crossed my mind, however, to ask him to lay off...I'd catch his pained expression when he thought I wasn't looking, or the exhausted circles under his eyes, the weight of the world resting on his shoulders...and I couldn't do it. He was worried about me, and with good reason. He was trying to protect me the best way he knew how. Hadn't I always wanted proof that he cared about me? Hadn't I always been looking for the signs in every word he spoke, in everything he did? Well, here was my proof. The fact that I had been able to break Brian...cause him so much pain...it was more evidence than I'd ever wanted.

~.~

Sunday evening had an almost tangible air of deja vu about it. The last day of refuge, dreading what the morning would bring. What Brian would insist on. What I couldn't escape.

I couldn't sit still that night. I started off around six-thirty at the table, working on school shit. I was falling severely behind, barely scraping by. My work quality had been steadily decreasing week after week. I was, frankly, surprised that I was still even allowed through PIFA's front doors anymore.

Around seven, unable to concentrate any more, I gave up and decided to watch some TV, which turned out to be an even less effective remedy for my restlessness. After about ten minutes in which I realized I had settled into a kind of stupor, watching the flash of colors on the screen without taking any of it in, I abandoned that, too.

Eventually, after numerous failed attempts to distract myself from thoughts of what awaited me the next day, I once again tried convincing Brian that it was all highly unnecessary, anyway. I knew, by now, that it was useless, a lost battle...but I had to try one last time...I couldn't go down without a fight.

"Look, you're already fucking watching my _every move," _I shot at him, my tone not hiding my annoyance not nearly as well as I had intended it to. I sounded, as usual, like a fucking emotional mess, but shit, it was driving me insane. I didn't mind his little hugs and kisses, but having him standing at the sink watching me brush my teeth, combing his hair for ten minutes while I showered, removing the damn _steak knives_ from the kitchen drawer was a bit much for me to take with good grace. "Do you really fucking think I'm going to try anything?" _Again? _Neither of us said it, but the word was creating a fucking cacophony in the middle of the room that neither of us could ignore if we tried.

"This isn't just about that," he snapped right back at me. I wondered vaguely how what had started as such a peaceful conversation had ended up like this, our frustration with the whole situation rising to the surface, pouring out as we struggled to maintain our grip on our lives while they continued to implode around us. Just another way this night carried such a thick sense of deja vu...it was as though we'd worn a groove into this particular conversation from going over it so many times. We had the scene memorized, every argument, every word, every emotion that played across our face...repetitive, like a movie we had watched too many times. Only now, it was as though we'd snatched up the new version of the movie in a store, the kind with never-before-seen bonus footage, and suddenly there was a brand new scene that we'd never had. Still the same in so many ways, the same story, still familiar—we could still repeat every word—but now we had this new clip that we had to fit into the film strip, one that didn't quite belong, but that we couldn't leave out.

"This is about you," he said darkly, "getting better."

"It's not that fucking easy! You can't just _fix _me, Brian!" I shouted, desperation causing my voice to crack embarrassingly. It was true...he couldn't fix me. No one could. "How is _forcing _me to go—"

"Will you stop fucking making it seem like all I want to do is make your life hell?" he cut me off. His voice was rising in time with his anger, coming to a boiling point. "I'm just trying to fucking_ help _you!" he spat.

"Then _help _me. I don't want to _go, _Brian!" I cried. Once again, there was that commanding sense of panic in my chest, icy and relentless. I was a puppet, a slave to it. I had no control over the things it made me say and do, the emotions it provoked from me. Didn't Brian understand how powerful it was? How terrified it made me?

"Listen to me. Are you listening?" But he had that tone. That Brian Kinney tone that nobody was immune to. When he spoke, you listened, no matter who you were, or what you had to say, or how scared or angry or desperate you felt. "After all the shit you put me through..._something _is going to fucking change. I can't do this anymore, Justin."

And there was the other tone I couldn't ignore. That broken, pained tone...his vulnerability seeping from every word. It curled around the chill of the panic in my lungs, burning it back with the fiery ache it left in its place. Seeing him like that, fighting to stand, struggling to hold onto anything that would keep his world balanced just a little longer...it terrified me.

"You have to fucking do something. I'm out of answers." He shrugged, but the would-be casual gesture was effectively overcome by the break in his voice. His eyes blazed with pain, with the most barren form of honesty...letting his barriers down, letting his pain reach out and touch me, pull me inside just for a moment. I couldn't ignore it. He knew just how to get to me. He knew every button to push, every tone, every word, every expression that could make me do anything. Because I couldn't stand to see him hurting, knowing I was the cause. Knowing that I was breaking his heart...it killed me.

And it left me a choice. The decision between my pain, and his pain. Him or me. Everything he did for me...I owed him. He'd give me anything in a heartbeat if it lessened my anguish at all...well, it was time to return the favor. It was time that_ I _did something to fix this. Or at the very least, time I tried.

**~Brian~**

What I had told him was true. I was out of answers. Fuck, I barely even knew the questions anymore.

We had fallen. Both of us, we had slipped over the edge, and were still sliding down inch by inch. Grasping at nothing and everything, desperate fingers scratching, struggling...gaining nothing, losing it all.

I had given him all I could give. Hope and promises he barely believed in. It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough, because it still hadn't saved either of us. We were still suspended in midair, with no hint of where we would land if we let go.

I was constantly terrified of falling, of _Justin _falling, to the point where I couldn't ignore the compulsion to have him within three feet from me at all times throughout the day. It had to be driving him crazy, in fact I knew it was, but I couldn't quench the fear lurking inside me, always afraid, always suspicious. Nor could I resist the urge to touch him, to be physically connected to him in some way during every possible second, every opportunity. I needed to feel him, have him close, prove to the cutting voice of fear inside my head that he was real, that he was safe.

The worst part was going to sleep at night. I would never be able to completely erase the feeling of going to bed thinking he was right there beside me, and waking up to find him gone. I would never be able to forget what it had been like to awaken in the middle of the night, only to later discover that I had been seconds away from losing him for good.

However, all the caffeine and coffee in the world couldn't keep me awake forever. Eventually, I had to sleep, and decided that a few extra precautionary measures were necessary. Such as changing the alarm code once again, and setting it on the immediate alert mode every night before we went to bed. If he so much as opened the door, I would be awake and at his side in a heartbeat. I knew he resented me for keeping the code from him, but it wasn't as though he needed to know it...he was never in the loft alone anymore, as it was. If and when I trusted him to be in the loft by himself, some day in the distant future...I would give him the code again.

Still, even with the alarm system locking him inside these walls, I slept fitfully, some part of my brain that never shut off keeping my subconscious in constant overdrive. Every day when I awoke and he was still asleep beside me, I let out a breath of relief. I wondered if I'd ever get over this obsessive fear of mine.

I used to think the time period between five on Fridays and eight on Monday mornings passed far too quickly. Now, that was still true, though for entirely different reasons. Once again, I'd taken off work, suffered through Cynthia's irritated remarks and prying questions, and scheduled an appointment for Justin at a therapist's office.

He seemed to be...well, not exactly warming up to the idea, but getting used to it. Anyway, he'd seemed almost accepting of his fate when he'd climbed into bed Sunday night, which surprised me. An hour before that, he'd taken up passionately arguing his case with me, once again reducing himself to tears.

I must have said or done something right, however, because not long after that, when I joined him in bed after catching the eleven o'clock news, he scooted all the way over to my side and pressed his forehead to my shoulder...his silent hint that he wanted to be held. Even through the sweatpants and t-shirts he now wore to bed, there was nothing quite like feeling him breathe, sensing his every movement while he slept next to me.

It was a somewhat more innocent variant of the way we used to fall asleep after one of our four-in-the-morning fucks. The kind we used to have after his nightmares, when it would feel like everything in the world was just falling into place around us. Something perfect, untouchable. Something that was ours. I was fairly certain that I had never felt closer to anyone in my life than I had during those nights with him...every movement flawlessly drawn out, every touch setting me on fire...and then, when it was over, just lying there, still buried inside of him.

I had been hesitant to do it at first. Refused him the first couple of times. But there was one night that had started it, one night when he just felt so damn good and he was asking me to please stay and I just couldn't bring myself to pull away from the warmth, from the way it felt so right to be there with him. I'd never felt that before, that sensation of ultimate rightness, not with anyone, and I wanted it to last. Couldn't let go of it, couldn't give it up just yet. And so I'd stayed. Just until he fell asleep, but I'd always wondered if he had felt the same thing I did that night. Like the pieces of some previously unsolvable mystery had finally snapped into place.

Blame it on my exhaustion, but it hurt more than I could account for to realize that we may never have a moment like that again.

~.~

Monday morning greeted us with more rain and stormy skies. I was fucking done with the clouds and contemptible weather, and while I supposed it could be worse, I desperately craved the return of the sunshine...in more ways than one.

I had set my alarm for eight o'clock, though I awoke nearly an hour before it sounded, which was surprising, considering how restlessly I had slept. I had been having a nightmare of my own, one that I was determined to push to the back of my mind. It was too much of a distraction to deal with today. After watching the horrifying conclusion of the dream play out in front of my eyes, I thought I could understand why Justin never wanted to talk about his nightmares. I couldn't imagine telling him about mine, about the way it had felt to dream the memory the way it had happened...all but for the end. In the end, I'd lost everything. I'd been too late, and Justin had fallen. Justin had _jumped. _

Deciding on a hot cup of coffee to help shake off the residual effects of the dream, I left Justin in bed and strode out to the kitchen. As I sat, I contemplated.

I was going into this with no expectations, no idea at all who I would be accompanying to the appointment today. Calm Justin, angry Justin, scared Justin...nor was I sure which one would be the easiest to deal with. But in the end they all hurt, they all caused my chest to ache, because they all were just an outward expression of pain.

I knew only two things for certain. One...we _were_ going today. I would not be deterred this time. If I had to throw him over my shoulder and drag him down there, we were going. I couldn't take another fucking day of this, of him in pain, of me in pain...it was time that we turned this around. The phrase 'the first day of the rest of our lives' seemed terribly appropriate here. Because that was exactly what I intended on it being. The first day of everything. The first step towards healing.

The second thing that I was absolutely sure about, was that he would not be taking that step alone. I had made him a promise, and I planned to stand by it. I would hold his hand, carry him if I had to, but he would never be alone. I couldn't let him do this by himself. I would be with him.

All too soon, it was time to wake Justin. I'd let him sleep as long as possible...we had a solid hour before our appointment, but I wanted him up, wanted him ready, just in case. I was fully prepared to deal with a resistant Justin if I had to, but I wanted plenty of time to spare.

However, when I reached the bed, bending over the little blond lump of covers that was my Sunshine, I got a surprise.

He was already awake, his eyes aware enough that I knew he must have been up for a while, and was staring at me uncertainly. I could practically feel the fear radiating off him in waves, and offered him a weak smile. He returned it with his own slightly watery one, and freed an arm from beneath the mound of blankets, reaching up to me. My fingers closed tightly around his, a gesture of support, of love—fuck, I would never get used to thinking that—and though his eyes glistened, his expression was resolved.

He dressed without complaint, and despite looking fucking nervous as hell, he had soon run a comb through his tangled hair, brushed his teeth, and pulled on his shoes without a single instance of resistance. Actually, without a single word at all, which worried me. But then, as we were about ready to step out the door, he took a deep, steadying breath.

"Do I...really have to do this, Brian?" he asked. I glanced at him, and felt my heart sink with pity. He was resolutely avoiding my eyes, staring at the floor, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He looked on the verge of a panic attack, his chest moving a little too rapidly, his evasive stare wet and wide. I moved over to put an arm around him, drawing him into my body, and he melted into me gratefully.

"It'll be okay," I whispered softly. "I'll be with you. The whole time, all right? I promise." I felt him nod into my shoulder, and squeezed him tighter. I pulled back, just enough to see his face, but he still refused to look at me, his lips pressed tightly together as he tried to fight back his tears. I slipped my fingers under his chin, gently forcing his gaze up to meet mine.

It was one of those moments where words would only serve to ravage the fragile connection established with only a silent look. Cautiously, I leaned down to brush his lips with mine, letting them linger, absorbing the delicate preciosity of such a rare moment, before pulling away, still tasting him, the understated sweetness that was Justin.

He let out a little breath, and with it, the intoxicating scent that went along with the taste. He opened his eyes, looking up at me, and I found his hand at my waist and squeezed it. "You ready?" I asked quietly.

His eyes darted once to the door, then back at me, but he nodded. I didn't release his hand, gently pulling him forward, into the first step towards everything.

~.~

Out in the jeep, he took up his docile silence once again, leaning his head against the window, as though in some kind of trance. I almost wished for the anger and defiance I'd been prepared for, instead of this timid, not-verbal Justin that, quite frankly, unnerved me. I only hoped he'd break out of this silent spell he was under by the time we got to the therapist's office.

It took even less time than I'd anticipated to get there. Shifting the jeep into park, I glanced over at him, ready to soothe or encourage or whatever was needed, and found him just sitting there, staring at the building, his eyes glazed and out of focus.

"Justin?" I said quietly. He jumped, as though I'd startled him. "You ready?" I asked again, braced for tears or pleading or whatever I was going to have deal with to get him in there. But he just opened his mouth halfway, like he was planning on saying something, and turned back to look at the building in front of us.

"Justin," I said again. "Our appointment's in a few minutes. Are you ready to go in?" It was as though some part of him had shut down overnight. Maybe his panic, his utter unwillingness to do this, had caused him to go into some kind of self-preservation mode or something, taking him someplace where none of this was reaching him. Maybe he was just_ that _scared. I had considered the possibility of a resolute, accepting Justin. A virtually comatose Justin hadn't really crossed my mind. I wasn't sure what to do for him.

Pulling my keys out of the ignition, I shoved them into my pocket and got out of the jeep, crossing around the front to the passenger side. I pulled open his door; he didn't even bat an eyelash, just kept staring straight ahead.

"Justin...come on..." I said gently, reaching up to grab his hand again. He allowed me to pull him from the jeep, and huddled into my side as I closed the door, locked it, and began leading him toward the building. His hand was wrapped tightly around mine...so tightly, in fact, that by the time we got to the front doors, two of my fingers were experiencing that pins and needles sensation that bordered on painful.

He slid into a seat in the waiting room while I collected the required paperwork, a clipboard, and a pen from the woman at the front desk, then I took a seat beside him. He sat perfectly still, his eyes as distant as ever, and I wondered where exactly his mind had taken him to spare him of his own dread.

"You're supposed to fill this out, Justin," I said quietly, handing him the clipboard with the pen. He raised glazed eyes to mine, before reaching out and taking the clipboard. He sat and filled out his paperwork while I held his free hand in mine, settling back in my seat, and taking the time to absorb my surroundings.

The room was comfortable, I supposed...as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, anyway. The chairs were relatively inviting, and the walls were the shade of sky-blue you see only on the most gorgeous of summer days. Various plants adorned the tables spaced in between the chairs, and a little potted tree stood in the corner. Across from us, a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, was flipping through a magazine, and a few seats down from Justin, an older man was filling out his own paperwork.

After a few minutes, I glanced over at Justin's lap, and the thin packet he was still filling out. I tried to watch without making it obvious, as he got past the personal information and insurance shit, and moved on to the mental evaluation section. His appetite, his sleeping patterns, anxiety and panic attacks...that kind of thing. Of course, I knew the answers to such questions already, but...there it was. His pain on paper. I turned away, not wanting to see anymore, and tried to imagine what the 'old' Justin would have said about the abstract painting framed on the wall opposite us.

After a few minutes, another glance at Justin's lap revealed that he was finished filling out his information. I slid the clipboard from his hands, and quickly returned it to the front desk for him, before taking my seat again and slipping my hand back into his.

"Hey," I whispered. The waiting room was almost completely silent, except for the occasional rifling of papers, and I was certain my voice carried easily to the other occupants. Not that I really gave a shit. "You all right?"

To my relief, he gave a little nod, but didn't look much more alive than he had the entire ride there.

"I want to go home," he said quietly, his grip on my hand tightening, but I was just glad he was speaking again.

"I know," I said honestly. "We will soon. It's only an hour...only one hour."

"Will they let you come back with me?" he asked. I could hear his fear at being left alone as clearly as if he had shouted it in my ear, and I kissed the side of his head reassuringly.

"Yeah. If you want." He just nodded again absently.

I wasn't sure if I should be relieved or frustrated that they called his name so quickly. On the one hand, the faster we got in, the faster we got out and went home, and I wasn't sure how long Justin could last like this. On the other hand, the unbridled panic that flashed across his features when he heard his name being called was not something I was eager to see.

"It's okay. Come on," I said, standing up and pulling him with me. I could feel the eyes boring into our backs as we crossed the room hand in hand, passed the front desk, and followed the woman who had called Justin's name down a hallway.

She led us to a small but comfortable little room; I had never been inside a therapist's office before, but it was almost exactly as I had pictured it. There was a couch, a reddish-brown color, pushed up against one wall, next to the single window in the place. Two square end tables were pushed up against either side of the sofa, and as though warning anyone who entered that they were not going to have an easy time here, there was a box of Kleenex on both tables, just waiting to be used. Across from the couch was a desk, at which I assumed the therapist was to sit, and next to that, lining the wall with the window, were several large wooden bookcases. I took a seat at one end of the couch, and Justin sat practically on top of me, once again squeezing my hand so tightly that I quickly lost the feeling in my fingers.

Kathy Chanders, the therapist Justin had chosen, closed the door quietly behind us as we filed into the room, and then sat down in her chair in front of the desk.

And then it started.

**~Justin~**

Everything in the room, from the couch to the bookcases to the sunny yellow curtains adorning the window...was a shady imitation of comfort. An artificial illusion to try and make me feel safe, to make me feel like it was okay to open up. But I had been here before. I had seen therapists before; the smoke and mirrors didn't fool me.

The only thing making me feel safe, making me feel the least bit _okay, _was the feeling of Brian's hand in mine, his body pressed close as I took refuge against his side. I wanted to go home. I wanted Brian to pull me into his arms and carry me down to the jeep, and not have to let go of him until we were back in the loft. However, any hope of this happening was abruptly shattered.

"Hi, Justin." Kathy Chanders was speaking. To me. I forced my gaze off the floor, pulled a fraction of an inch away from Brian, and looked up at her.

She had a kind face. Whatever false comfort she was trying to feed me here, she at least had that one genuine trait. She was about middle-aged, I guess...dark hair, and glasses a little too big for her face. She sat, observing us, clipboard in hand, legs crossed. She didn't seem at all perturbed by the sight of two men sitting huddled together on the couch. Of course, she could just be a good actress, but there was something about her gentle features that seemed sincere.

"My name is Kathy." Of course, I knew that, but I just continued to stare at her and let her talk. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

I realized, suddenly, that my fingers were numb, and forced myself to relax my grip on Brian's hand.

"I..." I tried to speak. But just as they had so many times in the past with Brian, the words died in my throat. I let my gaze drop again, shame flooding my face, and bit my lip, trying to hold back the tears that sprang into my eyes as if on cue.

"Okay," she said, apparently not worried in the slightest that I couldn't bring myself to say anything. "Why don't you tell me about your moral support there?" she asked, nodding at Brian. "What's his name?"

I glanced at him, then back at Kathy. "Um...Brian," I answered. Brian. I could talk about Brian. Brian was safe territory.

She smiled a soft, understated kind of smile. "And how do you know Brian?"

"He's, um...he's my boyfriend." I felt Brian's grip tighten reassuringly around my fingers.

"So how'd you guys meet?"

I was confused. I tried to keep the hesitant frown off my face as I answered her, wondering what exactly my meeting Brian had to do with why I was here. Though, really, as long as she allowed me to keep talking about Brian and not _it, _then I wasn't complaining.

"Would Brian be able to tell me why you're here?" she asked gently, and I felt my stomach drop. Of course she wouldn't let me avoid it. Of course she was going to make me think about it and feel it and hear it all over again. Couldn't anyone fucking understand that one time was enough? That living through it just that once was enough for a fucking _lifetime? _

I nodded, once again trying to fight back the tears pooling in my eyes.

"Would you rather he tell me?"

I nodded again.

"Brian?" she prompted him. I dared a glance at my boyfriend, and wondered what exactly to call the expression on his face. Reluctant. Ashen. He didn't want to do it, either. Didn't want to say it, relive it, allow it air to breathe and let it invade the moment with its presence.

"Uh..." Brian began, running his free hand over his face as he tried to think of how exactly to phrase it. He let out a low breath, before addressing Kathy. "A few months ago...Justin—went to a party. There was...fuck..." Kath waited patiently while he took a moment to collect his bearings before pressing on. "He was...assaulted...sexually...by several men."

It didn't do it justice. That one sentence didn't carry nearly the amount of pain, of terror, that it should. He should have said that they raped me. He should have said they beat me and tortured me while I laid there helplessly beneath them. _Assaulted...sexually..._ fuck, it made it sound so simple. So clean-cut and easy. Just like when Chris Hobbes was charged with 'simple assault' when he bashed me. Like it was just that fucking easy to get over. Like giving it a nice little name made it any less painful to deal with.

"Okay, okay," she said, scribbling something on her clipboard. "Is that what happened, Justin?"

Once again, I just nodded.

"You know, I've been where you are, Justin," she said. Her tone was soft, but steady. "I know what's it like, and how hard it is. But do you mind if I ask you a few questions about it?"

She had asked me if I minded. If I minded talking about it. If I minded answering her questions.

The truth, naturally, was that I minded a very great deal. But something else was struggling to register in my brain, something else was fighting to explain itself to me.

She had been there. She _knew. _

Not only that, but she'd asked me if I minded. For the first time in all of this, it made it sound like I had a choice. Like she wouldn't make me. Like someone actually fucking cared what _I _wanted.

Out of all the therapists, all the trauma specialists I'd had after I was bashed, none of them had ever asked me if I minded talking about it. Sure, they'd been patient and cooperative and all that shit, but when it actually came to discussing things I didn't want to talk about, none of them had ever asked if I minded. Never made it seem like I had a choice, even if it was all just an illusion, painted with understanding words. And none of them had ever said that they'd been there, that they _knew _what it was like, what I was feeling. It was something like meeting that artist Lindsay had introduced me to when I'd been so sure that I would never draw again. She had overcome her obstacles, all the shit life had thrown at her. She knew, too, just like Kathy did. She understood.

With one more glance at Brian, stealing the support he readily gave me with the gentle jerk of his head, I turned back to Kathy, took a deep breath, and gave her permission with the one quiet, cautious little word I spoke.

"Okay."

**~Brian~**

I had to say that I was pleased with Kathy Chanders. It was only the first session, but already she seemed to be gaining Justin's trust. He was talking, anyway. Not as much as he'd talked with me, but he answered her questions as best as he could, and when he couldn't, Kathy usually let me answer for him. I liked her method of procuring answers, too...the way she would occasionally, when it seemed Justin had had enough, switch topics, lull him back into a somewhat relaxed state, with questions about me, his hobbies, his best friend...things that made him comfortable. Made him feel safe. She seemed to realize that he volunteered information most willingly when the topic was me, and therefore began aiming her questions in that direction. Standard queries such as how long we'd known each other...to somewhat more playful questions, like his favorite thing about me. I would never forget his answer...that I was the only one who made him feel like 'the world could explode, and everything would still be okay.' Fuck. Why did he always have to get so deep with things? Fucking sentimental artists. It made me want to...okay, shit, it made me want to kiss his breath away.

So on and on, the two of them, with occasional input from me, talked. They talked about the party, as much as Justin would allow. It wasn't nearly as much as what he'd told me, but it was a start, and Kathy seemed content to let it go for now. They talked about his nightmares, his panic attacks, his anxiety at being around people. They talked about his suicide attempt four days ago. Well, three, if you considered it was well into the morning when I'd found him. It had been fucking difficult, because this was one of the parts Kathy had wanted my input on, and the last thing I wanted to do was see it again in my head, especially with that fucking dream I'd had just that morning, where things hadn't turned out in my favor. It was a reality that could so easily have been the one I was living right this second. But I told her as much as I could, everything she wanted to know.

Besides that, there had been one other discussion that I would have done anything not to hear. Kathy had asked Justin to rate his current mood on a scale of one to ten, ten being the best, one being the worst.

Justin had said two. Fucking _two. _I had pulled him a little closer when I heard that, and resisted the urge to kiss his cheek or his head or any part of him at all while he continued answering her questions. Only I hadn't been mollified in the slightest when the next inquiry was if Justin had ever felt like a 'one' on the fucking scale, and he had answered that he'd felt like a negative fifteen the morning he'd woken up after the party. The morning when he'd opened his eyes and saw Daphne's walls, Daphne's furniture, _Daphne..._and I had been nowhere to be found.

Toward the end of the session, after Justin had severely depleted at least one of the Kleenex boxes, Kathy spun her chair around to face her desk for a moment, retrieved something from a drawer, and turned back around to hand Justin a little book with an obscure black cover, two thin wire rings holding it together. He opened it hesitantly, while I peered over his shoulder.

It was a calendar. One of the cheap daily-planners that you get at the dollar store. We both looked up at Kathy for an explanation.

"I'm going to give you a little assignment. Well, actually, two assignments," she said, while Justin continued to stare at her blankly. "Every morning when you wake up, I want you to write about any nightmares you had the night before. If you need more room, just write it on a piece of notebook paper and stick it in the planner."

I grimaced; Justin was going to hate that. I spared a glance at him, but his face was deceptively impassive.

"The second thing I want you to do," Kathy pressed on, "is every night before you go to bed, write down a number for your general mood that day. One through ten. 'Ten' is going to represent the way you felt before the assault, okay? One is going to be the way you felt when you woke up the day after it happened. Just write it in the upper right hand corner, and bring the log back for your next session. The goal here is to see a gradual increase in the numbers over time."

Justin nodded, looking down at his new 'log,' while Kathy continued.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Justin," she said solemnly. "For someone who went through what you went through, there are always going to be days, even years from now, when it's going to be hard. But you took the first step by coming here and talking to me...and even though there are going to be some times when you don't feel like you can handle it, there are going to be days where you don't think of it at all. I know you can't imagine it now, but in time, you'll find it happening more and more often. You won't forget it," she said, seeming to anticipate what he had to say when he opened his mouth to counter her words. "You'll never forget it, Justin. But you'll be able to deal with it, and live your life. That's what you're here for. To start taking your life back."

He shook his head in quiet agreement, the millionth tear of the hour sliding down his cheek.

"I think that about wraps up our session," she said gently. "Are you okay?"

Though he muttered something in the affirmative, I didn't think he'd ever really looked less okay. He was still crying when we got up and pulled on our jackets, thanking Kathy and saying our temporary goodbyes, before going out to the front desk back in the waiting room. He stood off to the side, still sniffling, while I scheduled our appointments for every Monday at ten until further notice, and then we were off, back to the jeep, back to the loft. I could have gone to work, I supposed. It was only a little past eleven, and I could have easily dropped him off at Daphne's or Jennifer's, but...I didn't want to leave him today. Not when he had just had to go through that, tear himself open and bleed it all out for everyone to see. Both of us were just a little too—raw—today. A little too shaken, him in particular, and I couldn't bring myself to desert him now.

He was almost as silent on the way back as he had been on the way there, sitting back in his seat, his eyes closed. I wished I could hug him, wished I could stitch closed the gaping wound he'd been left with, and just fix it, fix him. But this wasn't like that. It wasn't some shallow physical wound that could be stitched up and forgotten. This time, the pain was on the inside. The scar was infinitely deep, never quite healing, never quite hidden. You couldn't fix this kind of hurt that easily.

"Are you okay?" I asked him, repeating Kathy's earlier words. However, I expected a somewhat different answer, with good reason, as it turned out.

"I...I don't know," he admitted quietly. He opened his eyes, but turned his gaze to face the window, so I couldn't tell if he was tearing up again or not. "Do we...really have to go back?"

Fuck, he knew the answer to that. Why did he have to ask...why did he have to make me do that to him? Tell him what he didn't want to hear? "Yeah. We do. But she seemed okay, didn't she?" I asked, trying to help him focus on the positive. Fuck, if there _was _anything that could be considered 'positive' about this whole situation. All I knew was that it was a bad sign when the things that used to be your worst nightmare started looking like the fucking silver lining.

He shrugged. "Yeah...but I don't like it," he said plainly. I had a feeling he was putting it mildly, though I couldn't really blame him for not wanting to go back. If it had been difficult for me to hear, it must have been ten times harder for him to have to talk about it. "I don't want to do it again, Brian."

I sighed. "I know. But we have to." Maybe he caught the use of the word _we, _the implication that he would not be alone, because he didn't argue like I expected. Instead, he just sat back in his seat and closed his eyes again, not saying another word the whole way home.

~.~

The next few days passed in much the same way as the weekend had: arduously slow and tense on both sides. Despite everything, he _still _fucking insisted on going to PIFA during his class days, which meant it was all I could do not to text him every five minutes to make sure he was okay. I did, however, call him at Daphne's after his class ended, and though he sounded more than a little exhausted, he seemed otherwise okay. I wondered what he'd told his best friend about the whole 'rooftop' ordeal, and his first therapy session...if anything at all. I was certain, the one day that week that I'd left him at his mother's, that he hadn't told _her_ about the roof, but she mentioned to me that she was glad we were finally getting help, so he seemed to have confided in her about that, at least.

All week long, I had to force my own curiosity under my rein—actively fighting the urge every time I walked passed the bedroom—to dash up the steps and snatch Justin's therapy log from the bedside table. He hadn't actually told me that I couldn't look at it, but he hadn't told me that I could, either, so I did my best to respect his privacy and let it go. It was difficult, however...I was endlessly plagued by the types of dreams he was describing in it; since he was writing about them, I figured it was enough, and had stopped forcing him to discuss them with me. One person breaking into his mind every week was enough, he didn't need the added strain of me trying to make him open up, as well. As long as he was talking to Kathy, and writing in his log, I would do my best to give him his space. At first, I'd been prepared to force him to write in the planner every day like he was supposed to, but as it turned out, I'd only had to do that on Tuesday morning, after yet another restless night. Every morning, while I fixed us breakfast out in the kitchen, I would keep my eye on him, scribbling away in the provided spaces of the weekly log in the bedroom, before he'd get up and join me at the table.

This pattern continued for three long, difficult days, until suddenly, without warning, it was Thursday morning, less than twenty-four hours away from the one-week mark of Justin's suicide attempt.

He had just finished writing in his log and come out to join me for breakfast, when he brought up the one thing that, for all my frenzied concern about his health and safety, had somehow managed to slip through the cracks like sand. Flipping his egg, sunny side up, onto his plate with his toast, I quickly poured him a glass of milk before setting it all in front of him, raising a critical eyebrow when he ignored his breakfast and started in that small, pleading tone of his that could only mean something that I was not going to like.

"Um, Brian?"

"Yeah?" I asked, nudging his plate toward him. He took the hint, picking up his fork, but looked about an ounce of patience away from rolling his eyes at my not-so-subtle insistence. He still didn't put a bite in his mouth, but before I could start in on him, he said the only thing in the world that could have made this whole situation worse. Thirty seconds previously, I would have said it wasn't even possible.

He took a deep breath. "I, um...well, it's been three months, since...you know...."

He didn't even finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. I wasn't entirely sure how I knew what he was going to say, but somehow, suddenly, I did, and it made heart slip a few inches lower in my chest. Any fucking lower and it was going to drop right out of my stomach.

"And...I'm kind of...supposed to get tested again."

Shit. I'd totally forgotten about that. I'd been so wrapped up in what was wrong with our situation, with our lives, with what was going on and what needed to happen and the terrifying new reality I'd been stranded in, that I hadn't spared a thought about what could still make it so much worse.

I froze, my own plate in hand, and just stood there stupidly for a second, before something clicked, and the gears began to turn again. I sat down next to him, barely realizing that I was trying to slice up my toast with a fork.

"Do you have an appointment scheduled?" I asked. Really, despite the nagging fear eating away at my stomach, I couldn't be more grateful that he had brought this up. For one thing, it had completely slipped my mind, so it was good that at least one of us had remembered. For another, it meant that, for the first time in a long time, he was taking steps toward helping himself, without me or Daphne or anyone else prompting him to do so. If he'd wanted to, he could have easily just not mentioned any of this to me, taken the easy way out and let us carry on the way we were. But he had spoken up.

"Tomorrow," he said, stabbing his egg with his fork, causing the yolk to break and flow like a miniature, golden version of lava over his plate. "Daphne said she'd take me."

I swallowed thickly, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "I can get off work," I said as casually as possible.

He offered me the weakest of smiles before turning back to his breakfast. "You don't have to. You already took off last Friday, last Monday, and once a week for the next—"

"It doesn't matter," I dismissed his concerns. "Do you want me to take you?"

He frowned. "I don't want you to keep doing this kind of thing for me. You can't keep taking off work like this."

In truth, it probably wasn't the wisest thing to do...I'd missed enough work in the last few months as it was, and was already scheduled to miss more, as he'd said, once a week for therapy for fuck knew how long. But, still, if he needed me there, arrangements could be made. It wasn't as though they were going to fire_ me _for a few missed days of work.

"Look, Justin, it's fine. I'll be there. What time is the appointment?"

"Nine-thirty."

Even better than I'd expected. "All right, then after that I can drop you off at Daphne's, and still go into work." He still looked uncertain, but didn't say another word on the subject, so I assumed that he'd accepted my offer.

~.~

As planned, I took him into the clinic on Friday morning, arriving a bit early than necessary, and sat with him in the sparsely crowded waiting room. It wasn't the first time we'd been here; not only had I brought him in for his check-ups after his assault, but we'd gotten tested together here once or twice, too, as a standard health precaution.

This was different, though, much different. The first time I'd brought him to the clinic for the two of us to get tested, he'd suggested that we fuck in the bathroom. The first time I'd brought him here after his rape—the follow-up appointment to make sure his syphilis was clearing up—he had sat, tense and clearly worried, ignoring all my attempts at comfort and encouragement until we'd finally climbed back into the jeep forty-five minutes later. Just another instance of 'then-and-now' that made my heart ache.

I wanted him back. More than anything, I wanted Justin back. Not only for sex, and not only for my sake...the world was too dark these days, without Sunshine smiles to illuminate it; the sun in the sky could never compare. But Justin was dealing with his own storm, his own cloudy days, that blocked out the rays of light he'd always emanated. I could only hope that one day, the clouds would clear, the storm would abate, and the sunlight would shine through once more. I needed it, craved it...if it ever returned, I swore to myself that I would never again seek shade, never again try to escape the inevitable glow, but instead bask in the warmth and light, cherishing the precious gift, even with the shadows it sometimes created. Even if it sometimes hurt my eyes.

**~Justin~**

I hadn't even realized, when we'd walked in the door, that I'd led us straight over to the same seats in the corner we had sat in the last time we'd been here. It took me several minutes of silence to realize how familiar this all seemed, sitting here with the support of someone I loved at my side. It took another couple of minutes to cautiously poke through my memories, as far back as I dared, to that morning after the party, sitting in this exact seat while Daphne sat next to me, in the same chair that Brian was in now, holding my hand.

Shit, had it really been three months ago?

It seemed odd to give it a specified time limit. Every day dragged on, melded into the next until it all ran together, one endless strip of pain...and suddenly it was being put into perspective with the knowledge that three months ago, I hadn't known this pain. Three months ago, the worst thing I'd been dealing with was figuring out how to get money for school tuition...and now I had this, wishing with all my heart that I could just have that time back.

When my name was called, Brian stood up, tugging me to my feet as well, and we went back together. He sat with me while they drew my blood, and once again I was forcibly reminded of the day, approximately three months prior, where this had been a fucking living nightmare. Worse than a nightmare...because it was every horror I could imagine, and yet it was so very real.

But here and now, I just sat, let the nurse draw my blood...my arm free of bruises this time, not flinching when she touched my skin. I had told Kathy that, on her scale of one to ten, I had been an emotional negative fifteen that first day afterwards. And it was true. Unbridled panic every time I turned a corner, sick realization as bits and pieces of my memory continued to return to me, pain I had never imagined I was capable of feeling capitalizing on my every thought. It had been nothing less than pure living hell.

I thought about the one-month anniversary of the party, that night I'd tried to have sex with Brian, hopelessly deluding myself into thinking that I could fix things that way. As it turned out, it had done a considerable, albeit indirect, job of fixing things...after making them worse. It had been that foolish move on my part that had sparked a whole chain of events into action...and resulted in Brian finding out everything.

I'd never imagined that things would have changed so much since then. That, unlike before, unlike the first time...it would be Brian sitting next to me now, Brian standing up and taking my hand and leading me out the door. Brian at my side. Because this wasn't like the first time, the first day...things had changed. Maybe I wasn't exactly happy with where this new trail had led us, but there were parts of it that I clung to. Parts of it that had changed for the better. Amazing, that even the worst things in the world could bring out some of the best. I only hoped that someday soon, there would be more reasons to live, to embrace life and light and learn to breathe again...than reasons to give up, let go and fall. Then again...all I really needed was one. One good reason. One reason to keep fighting.

I took a deep breath as I climbed out of the jeep in front of Daphne's building, taking in a fresh gulp of air that carried with it the promise of yet more rain, before leaning back across the seat to kiss Brian goodbye.

I stood inside the building for a moment, Daphne at my side near the rain-speckled front doors, and thought that if ever there had been one good reason for anything, I was watching him drive away.


	19. Scars

**A/N: Sorry this update took forever, I was sick for a while, and I didn't feel like working on it much. Better late than never though, right? ;) **

**~. Justin .~**

One second, everything was closing in on me. The darkness, the shadows...pressing closer and closer until I couldn't breathe.

The next second, someone was calling my name, the faces imprinted on my eyelids fading, my pleads with the imaginary figures dying on my tongue as reality began to shine through the darkness. Cool sheets. Sweat-slicked skin. A wonderfully familiar voice reaching out from some distant refuge, pulling me in the right direction. I fought to open my eyes, free myself from the clutches of the terror still struggling to hold onto me, dragging me down into the deepest recesses of the icy black lake I was drowning in.

"Justin!"

Finally, my eyes snapped open. I had a fleeting impression of surrounding darkness before my vision blurred with tears; I could feel myself trembling, the death-cold fingers of panic closing around my throat.

"_Breathe,_ Justin!"

My entire body gave an involuntary lurch, half my mind spinning with relief at the familiar voice piercing the surrounding chill, the other half still struggling to fight its way to the surface.

Suddenly, I could feel something being forced into my mouth, a small hiss, and the taste of something weightless on my tongue. I wondered for a moment if it was possible for air to have a flavor, before I realized that the thing in my mouth was my inhaler, and the mouthful of flavored air was my medicine.

"Breathe, Justin. I've got you. Just breathe."

I grasped onto the pacifying voice, let it pull me forward, feeling the warmth of strong hands rubbing circles into my back as I struggled to breathe.

"Shh, it's okay, it's not real...I promise you're safe..."

Finally, my rapidly heaving lungs began to calm down, the darkness receding as the soothing hands were replaced by arms curling protectively around me, the reassuring whispers slowly forcing back the terror responsible for my hammering heart. My back was against his chest, his arms around my torso, and I clung to them tightly, my only solid hold on reality.

"I've got you, okay? It's not real...I promise, none of it's real..."

Right. Not real. Not happening. Not anymore. Nothing like the substantial weight of the arms around me, the physical sensation of the satiny sheets below me, the warmth of the breath in my ear as it whispered all the things I needed to hear. No relentless hands. No groping fingers. No slimy tongues or unwelcome bodies or cruel eyes glinting at me from the shadows. Not now, not here. I was safe.

"Better now?" Brian asked me gently after a little while, in which my breathing finally evened out and the tears I hadn't even realized I'd been crying had halted. He didn't relax his grip on me even a little bit, but that didn't stop me from trying to press myself backward into him, as close as I could get. I just wanted him wrapped around me, wanted to be buried in his warmth.

"Better," I said softly. If the loft hadn't been almost completely silent right then, he wouldn't have been able to hear me. I felt his chin drop lightly to the top of my head, his breath stirring my hair and causing bits of it to fall forward into my face. He gently adjusted his position, loosening my grasp on his arms until his fingers could find mine, curling tightly around them.

"Sorry," I muttered.

"Shh," he dismissed my apology. Still not relinquishing his hold on me, he pulled us back to lie against the pillows again, me between his legs, basically on top of him. I clutched tighter at his fingers, entwined in mine...because no matter what I told myself in my head, that it wasn't real, that I was being pathetic, that I was safe and sound in bed...none of it would ever be as comforting as knowing that something as unbreakable as Brian's protection stood between me and the world.

I sighed, allowing the senseless fear and unease to drain from my body, soaking in the comfort that Brian seemed to emit, and tried to relax. Just another night. Just another dream. Maybe the horrors depicted in it had been real once, but they were over now, had been over for three months.

Lifting my head just a little, I peered over at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Five past three in the morning. Once again, I had failed to allow us a night of much-needed, undisturbed sleep. I'd woken us up twice the night before, too. Sometimes, like last night, I would ask Brian if he'd rather I go sleep on the couch, but he refused to even consider the idea. A small, selfish part of me was grateful for that...I was terrified of what would happen if I were to wake up without him. I was so sick of these nightmares. Sick of having to relive it all, even in my sleep. Brian had bought me a few different types of over-the-counter sleeping pills, but there wasn't much I could take with my allergies, and none of them seemed to help, anyway. All they really seemed to be good for was fucking up my sleeping schedule...even more than it already was.

I felt Brian sigh into my hair, the thumb he was stroking my hand with stilled, and I waited in tense silence for him to say something. Sure enough, before long, there was a tiny hitch in his breath, a moment's hesitation, and then, "You were...yelling my name."

It was quiet for a long moment. "I was?" I asked, trying to sound surprised. He wasn't fooled...I was a shitty liar. I had been dreaming about_ them,_ as usual, and apparently some of my desperate cries for Brian's help hadn't gone as unnoticed as they had in the nightmare.

"Yeah," he said. I could almost hear the silent prompt beneath the single word. Seemingly indirect, yet subtlety was practically nonexistent between us most of the time. We knew each other too well. I could hear the questions he was burning to ask, the things he was dying to know. But he was leaving it open, leaving it for me to decide.

"You don't want to hear it, Brian," I told him, letting out a low breath. I must have guessed right about what was going through his mind, because he sighed—a great, long-suffering kind of sigh—causing my entire body to rise and fall along with his chest.

"Just...make sure you write it down." Once again, I caught the pleading edge to his tone, the carefully concealed frustration. He didn't want to push me, not enough to cause me to break down like I had been known to do in the past...but it was killing him not to know. He'd been allowed a brief, but meaningful glimpse inside my head, and now I was shutting him out again. Or rather, he was letting me shut him out. But he didn't like it.

He hadn't asked me outright to discuss my dreams, my memories—fuck, much of anything to do with the party—since that first day in therapy. Maybe he figured once a week with a professional was enough. Privately, I wondered if I was getting a better deal that way or not. It was the lesser of two evils, I supposed. On one hand, the appointments with Kathy were only once a week, and only for an hour, not including her daily 'assignments.' And while I hated therapy with a passion, the entire thing was somewhat less grueling than Brian's hourly check-ups, his demands that he be told absolutely everything. On the other hand, Kathy, while she admittedly didn't seem all that bad, from my single hour spent in her presence, just...wasn't Brian.

It was strange...all along, I'd been needing to feel a connection, like someone else in the world actually understood what I was going through, what I felt every day of my life...and finally, I'd found that. Kathy got it. She knew what it was like to feel this. It was what I'd been wanting, right? Someone who understood. So why did it seem, now, like Brian got it in a way that she didn't? He had been here, involved in one way or another, since the beginning. He was the one waking up with me every night, the one holding me when I cried, the one forcing me to keep myself alive when I didn't think I had the strength for one more breath.

Somehow, I had missed this all along.

Still, there were some complications with talking to Brian that didn't carry over to Kathy. She was my therapist. Therapists listened to their clients, whatever they had to tell them, however hard it was to hear. It was their job. They were compassionate, but objective. Kathy didn't love me. Brian did. It ripped me apart inside to have to watch his face harden with pain because of something I said, something I described or remembered. The memories hurt him almost as much as they did me. Somehow, he had found a way to take my anguish inside of him, turn it around, and radiate it as his own. It wasn't fair. He shouldn't have to hurt so much.

"Are you...sure you won't get in trouble for tomorrow?" I asked, trying to shift the topic away from my nightmares. Our inability to be remotely subtle was a two-way-street...I knew he could sense the reason for the change in topic as easily as I could sense his quiet frustration with being kept in the dark.

"It's fine, Justin," he sighed wearily. "I told you that."

That was true. He had told me, more than once, even. But I hated the idea of him sacrificing for me, just because I was a pathetic mess that couldn't stand to be without him. "I just don't want you to get—"

"They're not going to fire me," he remarked coolly, anticipating my words. Correctly, I might add. "Don't worry. None of them have a death wish." I smiled, trying to determine if that was a joke or not. I had a feeling most of Brian's workers were, indeed, quite scared of him, and I wondered if that extended to his superiors, as well.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" he asked after another stretch of silence, turning the entire conversation around effortlessly. I was done talking about me. Done being the center of attention. I just wanted to crawl inside a hole and hide from the world for the rest of my life.

"I'm ready," I answered, my smile disappearing as quickly as it had come.

I figured that this was how it was going to be from now on. Every Tuesday morning, the day after therapy, would feel fresh with relief...nearly an entire week before I had to set foot back inside that building, that room. Every Friday, a little more wariness, all too mindful of what awaited me with the beginning of the new week. Every Sunday, nerves twisting my insides into something unrecognizable. Like now.

"I still don't want to go," I said stubbornly.

He sighed again. "I know. I'm sorry." He meant it, I knew he did...but I also knew that it was the kind of 'sorry' that meant _too bad, you're going,_ rather than _okay, I won't make you._

I swallowed hard. Maybe he could sense the tension in my voice, or maybe he had really figured out how to read my mind, because his embrace tightened around me, and I felt his lips, soft and cool, against my ear. "It'll be okay, Sunshine. The hardest part's over with...we took the first step. And Kathy seems okay, doesn't she?"

I allowed my eyelids to drift shut, though I wasn't really tired, despite the lateness of the hour. It was the aftereffects of my medicine...it tended to make me somewhat jittery. I'd only had a few nightmares lately where I'd woken up and not been able to breathe, but Brian had taken to keeping my inhaler on the bedside table, just in case. I sighed, squeezing our intertwined hands.

"Yeah," I tried to agree, though it was extremely halfhearted, and came out sounding more like a question than a statement. "You'll...you'll stay, right?" I asked quietly, squeezing my eyes tighter against the unbidden wetness suddenly filling them. It was ridiculous, how terrified I was. Scared beyond reason of being left alone, left without him. I could tell myself a hundred times that it would be okay, that I would be fine, even without him there, but the second I stepped outside that front door, everything changed. Any promises he'd made, any resoluteness or bravery or determination or anything at all that I'd been holding onto just disappeared, faded out of the picture, leaving nothing behind but blind panic. It scared me, the idea of being alone out in the city, out in the world...any fucking place that wasn't this loft...it meant danger. It meant the unknown. It meant pain, it meant that anything could happen to me. Anyone could do anything, and what could I even do to stop them? I hadn't exactly done a fantastic job of taking care of myself in the past.

But Brian...he meant safe. He meant everything was okay. He meant protection. I trusted him beyond anything or anyone...so maybe he had once been too late, once been too far away...but that was exactly why I needed him. If he had been with me, been close enough, been fast enough, the way he'd tried to be...he would have fought with everything he had. He would have saved me if he could have. And he still would. He would still protect me. He'd do anything for me.

"Of course," he placated me. His voice had a soft, mellow quality about it...he was getting tired again, falling back asleep. I let out a deep, nervous breath, trying to let the butterflies out with it, and turned slightly in his arms to press a tiny kiss to his impressively toned bicep, before snuggling further into his chest, still trying to bury myself in him. I noticed that if I shifted a bit until I was lying more on my side, and laid my head right over his heart, I could hear it beating against my ear. Held securely against him, wrapped tight inside my human blanket, I allowed its steady rhythm to lull me back to sleep.

**~. Brian .~**

Once again, I awoke before the alarm, this time without the discomfort of a nightmare tugging at my consciousness. I cringed against the brightness of the morning, streaming through the windows. It wasn't exceptionally sunny out, but compared to the inside of my eyelids, it was nothing short of blinding.

I blinked a few times, trying to adjust, and suddenly became aware of something heavy and warm situated directly on top of me. When I finally opened my eyes fully, I was greeted with a tangled mess of blond hair, and realized the thing on top of me was Justin. He had managed to turn in my arms at some point during the night, and was lying on his stomach, his face pressed into my chest.

I was awake, but not yet at that point of no return, where it made closing your eyes and going back to sleep impossible, so I decided to do just that, allow us both an extra forty-five minutes or so of much-needed rest. Justin's nightmare had woken us up at a little past three last night, so we could certainly use the extra time. We were always exhausted these days.

I had just shut my eyes again, trying my best to tune out the world just a little longer, when I felt it. Hot and wet, it dripped onto my chest, slid downward, and was wiped away by gentle fingers. Shit. Not again. "Justin?"

His breath caught audibly, but he didn't look up, instead curling in impossibly closer to me, his head pressed against my neck. But I knew what I had felt.

"Why are you crying?" I asked gently, my fingers automatically tangling themselves in his shirt, his hair. My mind jumped from the prospect of another nightmare, to the fact that he had his second therapy appointment today, but I waited patiently for him to explain.

"I...had another dream," he admitted, his voice somewhat muffled, as he hadn't bothered to raise his head from my neck.

"Just this morning?" He nodded. "How long have you been up?"

"I don't know...a few minutes, I guess. Sorry I woke you up," he mumbled, squeezing me a little tighter.

"You didn't," I dismissed him, though I wasn't entirely certain if that was true or not.

I laid there with him for a while, soothing him, comforting him, the usual routine...and fought commendably with the impulse to demand to know what he'd been dreaming about. I hated not knowing what he was thinking. It was just a result of this whole thing, I supposed. He hadn't told me he'd been raped. He hadn't told me at first when his test results had revealed that he had syphilis. After all that it had taken to get him to talk to me about the party, I couldn't help that desire to know what was gong through his head at all times. In my experience, what I didn't know had a very real possibility of hurting him.

However, as long as he was recording his dreams in his log, and talking to Kathy, I'd do my best to stay out of it. I closed my eyes and tried to push it all from my mind, lingering somewhere between sleep and consciousness, just listening to him breathe. His body was warm and comfortable on top of mine, not too heavy, not too awkward...it fit. I slipped my hands tentatively underneath his shirt, soothing the tense muscles of his back, his skin soft and smooth beneath my fingers.

Too soon, the alarm sounded noisily next to us, stirring us from our moment of relaxation. We both sighed, and he tried to snuggle deeper into me; it was tempting to just hit snooze and settle back into sleep with him, but I gently rolled him from his position on top of me, shut off the alarm, and together we reluctantly dragged ourselves from the bed and headed for the bathroom.

"You okay?" I asked as I passed him at the sink. His hair was sticking out at odd angles, his clothes were rumpled, his eyes red and bleary, though from tears or lingering exhaustion, I couldn't tell. He reached automatically for his toothbrush,while I pondered a quick shower. We had the time, it was just the inevitable awkwardness that I'd have to factor in that was the problem. It was either now or later, however, so I decided to just get it out of the way.

"Fine," he answered, turning away, his eyes firmly fixed on the sink, while I began to undress behind him. I hated making him so uneasy, especially in such close proximity as we were...but I also didn't want to let him out of my sight, so he was just going to have to deal with it. He shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair while I took my shower, deliberately avoiding looking at me at all costs. I dressed quickly, trying to minimize the time I spent in a towel, or worse, completely naked in front of him...and turned away while he pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt.

I took care of the rest of my hygienic routine at the sink while he scribbled a description of his latest nightmare in his planner. If curiosity could ever be something physically tangible, mine would have smothered us. I wanted to know, but then again I didn't. I needed to, but I knew it would hurt. Though after months of his constant secrecy, always feeling like there was something he wasn't telling me, I thought I'd rather take the pain, if it meant he was sharing his. I supposed it didn't really matter what he was writing, or if he told me about it...he was getting help, and that was what was important. But still...I hated this feeling of helplessness. I hated not knowing exactly what was making him hurt.

He was almost as quiet on the way to our therapy session as he had been the last Monday, staring out the window, watching the cars go by. Soon enough, he was clutching my hand as I led him up to the building, not letting go until we reached the waiting room and I freed my hand to drape my arm around him instead. I tried to think of something, anything, to say to him that I hadn't already promised...that it would be okay, that I would be there...but he'd heard it all before. He rested his head on my shoulder, fingers clenched around his planner, as we waited in silence.

It wasn't long before Kathy came out to call his name, offering us both a gentle smile, and we followed her through the winding hallway back to the same room we'd occupied the week before. Grasping my arm tightly enough to potentially leave bruises, Justin pressed himself as close as possible to me as we sat down opposite Kathy on the little couch. Once again, I pried myself free of his grip to put my arm around him instead, drawing him in close. I didn't like how he always seemed to want to shrink inside me and hide, as though wishing he could just disappear into nothingness, and wondered when he would start to feel a little more secure outside of the loft again. It had been a gradual thing after the bashing, too, so I supposed it was just a good thing that he at least still felt safe with me. Thank God that hadn't changed.

Meanwhile, Kathy had perched herself on her chair in front of the desk, her mandatory clipboard in hand as she surveyed us.

"Hello, Justin, Brian. I'm glad you came back," she said, nodding at us both. There was something in her voice that suggested she knew just how reluctant that decision had been. "So how have you been this week?"

Next to me, I felt Justin shrug. When he didn't supply any further information, Kathy's eyes flicked to me. "It's...been a rough week," I said honestly. It had been tough for me...having to be away from him all week at work, the appointment at the clinic, everything that went along with that...and I knew it hadn't been any easier for him. Kathy nodded, and her eyes fell on the planner Justin had left on the cushion beside him. "Okay, okay. I see you brought your log back, Justin. How's that been working out for you? Are you writing down all your dreams?"

Justin cleared his throat lightly. "Yeah."

"Good," Kathy smiled at him. Her eyes seemed to twinkle a bit behind her overlarge glasses, giving the soft smile a truly genuine feel. "Have you let Brian read about them?" she asked.

I tensed, biting my tongue, resisting the urge to allow a frustrated, slightly indignant _no _to slip from my lips. Justin shook his head, and answered with the same response, though in a smaller, somewhat less aggravated tone.

"Would you let me read them, or would you prefer I didn't?" Kathy prompted gently.

I glanced at Justin. He looked...surprised. I was too, actually. I'd thought the entire point of the exercise was so that she _could _read the entries. "Um...I don't know," he said, his fingers snaking over to the log beside him.

"Okay, okay," she said, seeming to accept this. "What about the scale numbers? Have you been writing those down everyday?" When Justin nodded, she smiled again and offered him another encouraging remark. I could literally feel him relaxing at my side, the tension easing out of his shoulders. "Have any of the numbers been higher than a five?"

I swallowed thickly, not really wanting to hear the answer to this, and glanced at Justin. "Um...no," he said quietly, dropping his gaze to his knees.

"That's okay. It's what you feel," Kathy said comfortingly. "So, what else has been going on in your life this last week?"

Justin took a deep breath. I sat silently while he told her about school, about going to Daphne's and his mother's. She asked him what he'd told them both about his whole situation, and I listened while he recounted things he'd said, things he'd left out. He told her about his mother finding out about what had happened at the party, along with the rest of the 'family.' Kathy seemed surprised that everyone knew, but she said it was good it was all in the open with the people he cared about. As it turned out, Justin had told both his mom and Daphne about coming to therapy, but neither knew about the deciding factor that had resulted in him being dragged into it...his attempted suicide.

I'd been trying, with little success, to put that particular incident out of my head since the night it had happened. After all, what more could I do about it? It was over with. Justin was getting help. There was no fucking way he could possibly attempt to try it again, not with the incessant security at the loft. But that didn't stop me from having nightmares in which I was too late to pull him back from the edge, or being paranoid and texting him every half an hour while I was at work, or constantly seeing potential danger where it didn't exist. He had tried to kill himself. I had a feeling that wasn't something I was going to just get over. My philosophy for life had always been to just accept whatever shit was thrown my way, and move on. Fuck allowing it to sink in, processing it, analyzing it like the shrink sitting opposite me at this very moment...why bother holding onto it? It happened, it was over, just keep moving. That philosophy had never worked with Justin, however, and apparently it wasn't about to start now.

"So, am I correct in assuming Brian and I are the only two people who know about that?" Kathy asked. Justin nodded, his shoulders hunched over defensively as though she had berated him for not telling anyone, though she'd been quite gentle.

"Can I ask why?"

It took him a moment to find his voice, and along with it, the first tears of the hour. They leaked out of the corners of his eyes and slid down his cheek; he wiped them away impatiently, and I pulled him a little tighter against me. "I didn't want to hurt them," he mumbled. "It was so stupid. I didn't want to tell them about it."

"So would you say you're ashamed of what you tried to do?" Kathy prompted. He nodded again. "How do you think your mother and your friends would react if you told them?"

Justin bit his lip, staring at his knees. "They'd cry. Daphne would probably yell at me. My mom...she'd think it was her fault. Because she couldn't help me. She already thinks the party was her fault."

"Not 'the party,' Justin," Kathy corrected him gently. "Call it what it is. The rape."

He shook his head numbly. "Yeah. She thinks that was her fault."

Kathy was apparently going to ignore the fact that he'd avoided saying the word again. "And who's fault do you think it was?"

I stiffened, trying to prepare myself for the answer.

"Mine."

Just the answer I'd been afraid of.

Kathy raised an eyebrow. "You blame yourself?"

"Yeah," Justin said quietly, as though it were obvious. "I mean...I went there. I knew better."

Kathy seemed to consider him. "Well, Justin, there were a lot of other people involved, in some way or another. Your friends, your family, Brian...is it their fault, too?"

"No. _I _made the decision," Justin said hotly. "I'm the one who went there. It was _my _fault, not theirs."

Something seemed to flutter inside my stomach, a subtle warmth spreading throughout me, despite Justin's adamant decision to accept the blame for everything that had happened. Because Kathy was right...if it was my fault, then it was also Justin's, it was also his mother's, his father's, Daphne's...we all could have done more. If the blame belonged to one of us, it belonged to all of us...and it didn't. It just didn't. Gary Sapperstein and those other sorry excuses for human beings had made the decision to tie him up and force themselves on him. They were the reason we were sitting here on this couch today...because of what _they'd_ done. We could go on and on, arguing about who's fault it was until the day we died...but it was senseless. Maybe I would always regret not being able to protect him, not being there when he needed me...but that didn't make it my _fault. _Those sick bastards had been the ones to hurt him; they'd made a decision of their own that night.

"Okay, okay. Let me ask you something, Justin," Kathy said thoughtfully. "If it had been one of your friends in your place...Daphne. If Daphne had made the same decisions you did, however questionable, and she'd been raped...would you think it was her fault?"

Justin looked disgusted. I, however, wanted to hear his answer. It was the perfect cornering argument. "Of course not."

"Why not? If she chose to go to a party the way you did, it would have been her decision that got her into that situation, wouldn't it?" Kathy pointed out calmly.

"But, it's not..." Kathy and I both looked at Justin, my expression expectant, hers carefully neutral.

"Do you see?" she asked, when Justin only settled back into the cushions, in what was, I assumed, a dignified silence. "Things happen, Justin. To innocent people who don't deserve it. It's life. And it's not anyone's fault, except the person who causes the pain. Your rapists made the decision that night to hurt you. The blame lies with them, and them alone."

"I was _stupid," _Justin argued, blinking away his tears. "I was such a fucking _idiot."_

"Whatever lapse in judgment you showed that night, it did _not _give them a right to force you into sex," Kathy said firmly. "It's important you realize that, Justin. It wasn't your fault."

"The roof was mine," he mumbled after a moment. He wasn't looking at Kathy, or me, for that matter...but staring at the Kleenex clutched in his fingers. "That was my decision."

"Do you regret making that decision?"

Justin looked as though she were crazy for even asking that. "Of course...I was stupid," he said again. "I was so fucking selfish. I-I hurt Brian..."

"It's good you realize that suicide isn't the answer, Justin," Kathy said. "But it's not good to let it cause you _more _pain. Would you ever consider trying it again, based on how you feel about it now?"

My throat was suddenly very dry. I didn't want to look at him, didn't want to listen, but I forced myself. I didn't want to miss the most crucial thing he'd ever say. "No. I couldn't."

"What would stop you? If you were in pain, and you were thinking about taking that way out, what would stop you from doing it?"

There was a beat of nothingness. "Brian." Another pause. "I-I couldn't...do it to him again." He was choking up, struggling to speak through his tears. All I could think of to do was to squeeze his hand, pull him a little closer. I was his reason. Essentially his reason to live. To push past the pain and survive. That was...more than I had the words for. "I-I didn't know...it was going to hurt him so much. I didn't mean to," he let out a small sob, the tears falling thicker than ever.

It was only a split second of silence that greeted his words, but it seemed to thrum inside my eardrums, deafening me. It felt as though someone had reached inside my chest and gave my heart a painful wrench away from the rest of my body. He didn't fucking think it would hurt me so much? What did he think, that I'd just say 'oh well' and forget about it? Forget about him? He didn't think it would rip me apart to lose him? Or had all of this just been temporarily overshadowed by his pain?

"Can I ask you something?" Kathy asked. Justin waited. "What made you decide to go up to the roof that night?"

"I...I think..." Justin spoke slowly, considering his every word, his eyes far away as he relived it in his head...the anguish, the terror...whatever he'd been feeling seconds before he'd made the decision to end his life. "Well, I was done. I was just...I didn't want to hurt anymore. I was like that for months, and I was done with it. And then I found out...Gary was walking free, and I...it just happened."

"It's understandable that you would want to stop hurting," Kathy said kindly. "But there are other ways to deal with your pain, Justin. Better ways."

"But how do I..." I spoke up, tightening my grip on Justin's hand. Though this time, it was for my own reassurance. "How am I supposed to know...that it won't happen again?" I asked slowly.

"You mean, how do you trust Justin again?" Kathy clarified.

Fuck, she was going to make me answer that. And in front of him. I deliberately avoided his eyes as I answered. "Yeah."

"Time," she said simply. "It'll take time, Brian."

"Time heals all wounds?" I asked skeptically. Perhaps she could since the cynical edge to my voice, because she offered me a soft smile.

"That's not to say it won't leave scars," she said, fixing me with a serious look over her thick-rimmed glasses. "All deep wounds do. But...yes. They all fade in time."

"It...it feels like...it's always going to be there." I hadn't meant to say it. But the moment I spoke the words, I knew they were true. "It'll always be an option again. I'll always..." I stole a glance at him, before forcing the words out. "I'll always be afraid he'll try something."

"And maybe it _will _always be an option," Kathy agreed. "Which is why it's important for you to share what you're feeling with Brian," she said, nodding at Justin. "And why it's important for you, Brian, to recognize the signs when he's having a rough time, if possible. Justin, you may want to have a signal, or a word...to let Brian know if you're having an emergency. If you need him, or you feel like you can't handle it, and you need help. It'll let him know that you shouldn't be alone, or that you need assistance."

"That's assuming he _wants _assistance," I said, a little rougher than I'd intended. But what if Justin didn't want help? What if he just wanted to go fucking_ assist _himself off another Goddamned roof?

Kathy, for her part, seemed to know exactly what I was thinking. "That's what this is for, Brian. We're trying to get Justin back to a place where he _wants_ to be okay."

Well, _I _wanted him to be okay, did that count for anything?

"These are some things the two of you may want to talk about," Kathy advised us. "Justin, I think it's a pretty safe assumption that Brian is willing to listen if you want to talk. Is that right?"

He looked up at me almost questioningly. "Anything you want to tell me," I said firmly.

Kathy smiled. "And I'm sure your mother and Daphne are both willing to talk, too," she told him. "You've got a lot of people who want to help you, Justin. I know you don't want to hurt them, but seeing you in pain hurts them, too. Don't you think they want to see you get better?"

Justin nodded, still staring at his knees, but I had a feeling the message had finally been received.

~.~

When we arrived home, he tossed his log on the table, slung his jacket across the back of the couch, and almost immediately began to wander off toward the bedroom, muttering something about a promise to call Daphne. Unable to ignore my rumbling stomach, I decided to fix us something to eat, and began pulling the necessary ingredients from the cabinets. A cup of coffee in the morning was just not filling enough to be considered breakfast.

It didn't take long for the little black book to catch my eye.

There it was, just sitting on the table, out in the open for anyone to see. Justin was in the bedroom on the phone, not even sparing a glance in my direction. Technically, I tried to tell myself, I wasn't doing anything wrong. He'd never actually told me not to look at it, though it still felt like an inexcusable invasion of privacy, somehow. If he was refusing to tell me about his dreams in person, I doubted he wanted me reading about them, either.

Under the guise of setting the table, I reached over and flipped open the first few pages of the planner. There were no set dates on it...it was one of those week-by-week calendars where they leave allotted spaces for you to write it in yourself. Justin had scribbled in the month and dates in their predetermined places for the first three weeks.

I flipped back a few pages to the front of the book...week one. All seven days, Monday through Sunday, were filled almost completely with cramped writing. On the upper right hand corner of each day, Justin had written a single-digit number in bright blue ink. I read them in succession, frowning slightly.

Two. Two. Three. Three. Two. Three. Two.

His scale of emotional evaluations. One through ten. Let's see...Monday had been a two...he'd said that much when we'd been in therapy that first day. Tuesday, another two. Wednesday and Thursday had both been threes, a little better. Friday, the day we'd gone to the clinic, had been back to a two. Saturday had been a three, and Sunday had been yet another two.

All in all, not fantastic.

I took in a deep breath and let it out again, before turning my attention to the lines upon lines of cramped blue scribbles that were his apparently detailed descriptions of his nightmares. Glancing once more over at Justin, who was still deeply engaged with Daphne in the bedroom, I began to read.

**~. Justin .~**

"What are you doing?"

His shoulders stiffened. I didn't even think he heard me coming. His head whipped around so quickly I could practically hear his neck crick.

He knew he was caught. He didn't say anything, just set the log down on the table, having the decency to look abashed, his lips rolled inward the way they did when he was nervous.

He didn't need to be. Honestly, if I was trying to keep his nose out of the log, I wouldn't have thrown it on the table where he could so easily pick it up. Did he think I was that stupid? I was just surprised he hadn't grabbed it last week from the bedside table for a look. I hated to hurt him, I hated the look in his eyes when he heard my descriptions of things like this, but of course, he could never just let it go. I'd done everything he asked, I'd gotten help, I'd written down my dreams...everything he wanted from me. Except one thing. He wanted in. Maybe Kathy was right...he deserved the chance.

"Just...looking," he said lamely. "What happened to Daphne?"

"Someone was at her door. She said she'd call me back." I took a step closer to him. He sighed, but didn't say anything. "So how much did you read?"

"Enough," he answered grimly. He closed his eyes, let out a breath. Pained. Guilty. "Last night...the one in the loft..." he started, looking as though he'd rather be anywhere but standing in front of me.

I bit my lip, teething sinking into the flesh. I'd thought it was a clear trade...he'd get to read the dreams, as long as I didn't have to talk about them. Apparently it wasn't as clear as I'd thought.

It was true, I'd had a few dreams about being in the loft when Sap or the others came looking for me. Banging down the door while I cowered pathetically behind furniture or something equally ridiculous, dragging me out into the open, shoving me down.... It was worse, in a way, than being inside The Room itself...the loft was my _home. _My one safe haven. Nothing was supposed to hurt me here.

"Is that when...when you call my name?" he asked, still avoiding my eyes at all costs.

I nodded. "Yeah. You're never home," I shrugged. Naturally, in my worst nightmares, Brian was always at work, or out with his friends, or somewhere that wasn't the loft. My fingers never seemed able to work the buttons on the phone to call him, and no matter what time my dream-self was certain that he would be home, the clock would drag, and he wouldn't show up. "You...never get there in time."

Right away, I wished I hadn't said it. Pain flashed across the hazel eyes I loved so much, his mouth hardening into a frown, eyebrows turning down at the corners. Because he hadn't gotten there in time in real life either. Because he hadn't been there to save me.

"And...you dreamed about that night...on the roof?" he asked awkwardly. His hand closed around the back of his own neck, rubbing away the tension there, still deliberately not looking at me.

This time, it was my turn to look ashamed. I averted my eyes to my feet, hands curling into fists, nails pressing into my palms to leave painful little indentations. I shrugged. "Yeah."

I never liked to bring up these difficult topics. The roof. My nightmares. The things that made our difficult situation even harder to deal with. It was like how it was after the bashing...whenever we were together, there would be this _thing _screaming at us...both of us could hear it, we were just so fucking determined to pretend it didn't exist. Now, we were back there again. Back to pretending we could get along with our lives just fine, trying to go ahead when the most important parts of us had been stripped away and abandoned long ago, at some crucial moment we were desperate to never revisit.

Maybe we needed to. Maybe we shouldn't stop going back just because it was over. Moving on, but not letting go. There was a balance that needed to be achieved, past and present. Forgive, but never forget. Secrecy between us had only ever done more harm than good...maybe he was right in wanting to know everything. These things could still hurt us, were still such a danger we could so easily slip back into. There were things we needed to say, things we needed to hear. There were things we needed to get in the open if we were going to continue living like this. He wanted in, I didn't want to hurt him. He was scared for me, all I wanted was for him to trust me again. We needed a middle ground.

Any apologies I had offered him since the night on the roof had sounded laughably pathetic, even to my ears...but they were honest. I truly, genuinely never meant to hurt Brian, any more than he had meant for me to get hurt on the night of my prom. I took a cautious step up to him, then another, until I was standing right beside him, close enough to reach out an arm to slide around his waist. His body turned to meet mine, and then we were standing chest to chest.

"Brian..." I said softly. He fixed me with a hesitant look, but waited in silence. "I'm so sorry," I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. I knew he hated to hear this kind of thing, these worthless words, but they had never been truer. "I really am. For everything. For...the roof. For all of it. I really didn't mean to hurt anyone. I was just..."

"Desperate," he finished for me.

"Well...yeah," I agreed. "But it wasn't fair. It was...fucking selfish. I wasn't thinking clearly."

He let out a small, humorless huff of breath into my face, and I could almost taste on it the coffee he'd had that morning. It had a comfortable, familiar kind of scent to it. I knew if I kissed him, I'd be able to taste it on his tongue, and was surprised that the idea wasn't too unappealing. I'd always loved Brian's coffee-kisses.

"You'd just found out that the sick fuck who raped you was walking free, Justin," he said slowly. "I can't blame you for wanting a way out. Not after what you've been through."

"It's no excuse," I said vehemently. "It's not. And I know it's not fair to ask you to trust me...but you don't need to worry," I said truthfully. "I swear, you don't." Maybe that promise would have meant a little more, if I hadn't sworn the exact same thing before. I just wanted it back. I just wanted to fix it, fix us, make us better. But I couldn't. It was like Kathy had said...only time would heal this. Hopefully. It had broken my heart to hear the things he'd had to say in therapy...that it would always be an option, that he would always be afraid for me. Basically, that he may never trust me again.

He just looked at me for a moment, as though trying to read in my eyes whether or not I truly meant what I was saying. I wondered what he found there, because he nodded a little, almost to himself, then leaned down to press his forehead to mine in a familiar, heartbreakingly intimate gesture. It was an 'I love you' without words. But Brian didn't need them. I hoped he could read me the way I always could with him...I hoped he could hear the silent words I was screaming. _I'm sorry, thank you, I love you.... _I wished I could tell him, get it out...but what was I supposed to say? Thank you for saving my ass for about the millionth fucking time? There was too much emotion there to put into words. He was beyond anything I could say...he always had been. What did you say to someone you owed everything to? Hell, I owed him my fucking life. He was, after all, the reason I was standing here, alive and breathing. Without him, I'd be bleeding my life out onto cold concrete...either by my own doing, or Chris Hobbes's. He was just...he was everything.

"Look," he said quietly after a little while, breaking the moment of intimacy, like a spell that had just lost its effect. "I want...I want to read about your dreams, Justin," he said quietly.

"I thought...you just did," I pointed out, confused.

"Not just these," he corrected me. "Every day. That's the rule, all right? You either tell me, or I get to read about them. But I always know. I don't like not knowing what's going on in your head."

I nodded slowly. "Okay." It was only fair, I supposed. He had been here every fucking night, through all of this. And while I hated the idea of giving him free access to my thoughts whenever he wanted it...if he truly, honestly wanted to know what I was dreaming about...he deserved that, at least. "Okay. But if I start letting you know what I'm thinking...you've got to promise to give me some space," I proposed, then hesitated, "You can trust me, Brian. I promise." Another meaningless vow. Or at least that was what I was sure it sounded like to him.

He frowned. "We'll see."

"Brian..."

But he wasn't budging. "I can't just forget about it, Justin," he confessed. "You scared the fucking hell out of me. I'm not taking a chance on something happening to you. I couldn't...I couldn't live with myself."

There. Blatant honesty. I wondered how something I'd always craved from him could make me feel like someone had plunged a knife into my heart. Just another reason why what I had done was so incredibly selfish...it was something else he would have taken upon himself. If I would have gone through with it, if I would have summoned the courage to relinquish control and let it all go...he would have blamed himself for not getting there in time. I should have known that. I should have realized he'd hate himself forever.

"So...are we okay?" I asked tentatively. "I know...you still want to make sure I'm all right, I mean with being alone and everything. But...otherwise...?"

Sometimes, like now, our lack of subtlety around each other was a good thing. He always knew just what I meant. He knew that 'okay' meant no guilt. No blaming each other or ourselves. He would still do his best to protect me, still keep me locked away like a prisoner inside my own life...but maybe he'd let me out of my cell once in a while for good behavior. Maybe he'd realize, eventually, that he could trust me. And I knew it would be difficult...I couldn't blame him for being afraid...but I would suffer through whatever dues I owed him, if it gained his trust back. It was just as Kathy had said—we would always have scars. But maybe we could begin to put the majority of this pain behind us. Even the longest roads had to start somewhere.

"Yeah. We're okay." He had his lips pressed to the top of my forehead, and I felt them curve into a small smile.

I let out a sigh of relief. There was something else I wanted to say...something I wanted him to hear...but he had been so incredibly open to any and all forms of conversation lately that I was just waiting for him to shut off, and go into typical Kinney-avoidance mode. However, I needed to make sure he knew this, and after all that had happened with us these last few weeks, I figured he could use the reminder.

"I love you," I said softly.

I didn't expect for him to say it back. He hadn't said it since that day after the whole roof incident, and that was fine with me. I didn't need to hear it all the time...I knew it was true.

But maybe he sensed something in that moment...that it was a time for reassurance on both sides, a time to open up...or maybe he was just holding up to his end of the bargain from when he said he'd talk about anything I wanted to tell him. Maybe he was just reciprocating with honesty of his own.

"I love you, too."

**~. Brian .~**

Over the next couple of days, a new pattern began to form. Every morning, Justin would sit in bed, dutifully scribbling in his log about whatever dreams he'd had the night before. Then, he'd casually leave it on the duvet, flipped open to the designated page. While he was getting dressed, or brushing his teeth, or otherwise engaged in his morning routine...I'd sneak a quick glimpse at the little log. He never watched me read it, and usually didn't even remain in the same room, but he knew I saw it, and I took the gesture for what it was. He was letting me inside, where I hoped he'd let me stay.

It meant more to me than I could tell him...and it finally meant that we were beginning to figure this out. We were, at last, on the same page, so to speak. So far, this had been like a mystery novel. Only instead of the solution to the puzzle, it was him that was always just out of my grasp, skirting around my every attempt to reach out to him. And it was me always falling just a little short, guessing and doing my best to grasp onto the bits and pieces of the clues he left for me to find. But now, finally, we were on the same chapter, the same page. The score had evened up at last.

It was Thursday when our so freshly established routine took an unexpected turn. Things had been going well enough...and by well enough, I mean that we had settled into a comfortable sort of state. He was still having nightmares, still having mood swings, still sketching disturbing images of Sap and the others...but we were talking. We watched movies together, during which he let me hold him. He even cooked me dinner one night. Things were just...okay. Easy.

It was nearly eight o'clock when there was a knock at the door.

"Go ahead. Keep going," I told him, gesturing at the TV screen, in which _Yellow Submarine _was playing for the third time that week. I gently disentangled myself from him, and left him on the couch to go and answer the the door.

"Mikey," I said, genuinely surprised to slide open my door to find him standing there. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, Brian. Ma wanted me to bring by some food." My best friend offered me a small smile, gesturing awkwardly at the plastic containers in his arms. I quickly grabbed a few of them off the top of the pile, before they splattered all over the ground.

"Why the fuck is she sending food?" I asked, helping him carry the containers inside, and sliding the door shut with my foot.

"She's worried. She says you haven't been by the diner at all these last couple weeks, and you're not answering your phone. Is everything okay? How's Justin?"

It was true, these last couple weeks had been more difficult than most. I had quit stopping by the diner for lunch, and begun deliberately avoiding calls from most of the family. I hadn't felt up to talking much. I'd had a lot on my mind. Could anyone honestly blame me?

"Hey, Michael," Justin called from the living room. Michael looked momentarily surprised to see him sitting there, but offered him a small smile and a polite 'hey' in return. From what I could gather, the last time Michael had seen Justin, it had been a rather emotionally charged encounter. Michael had been there, had known—as I still couldn't quite mange to forget—even before I had...and while I'd kept the family reasonably updated on Justin's progress, or sometimes lack thereof, I supposed it was a bit of a shock to see someone go from having a complete emotional breakdown, to sitting on the couch calmly watching a movie, without witnessing firsthand all the stuff in between. Because things _had _changed. Justin _was_ getting better, even if it sometimes didn't feel like it. Wherever he was at now, it was further than he'd been before, and that was all I could ask for.

"How is he?" Mikey muttered, dropping his voice and leaning close to me under the pretense of checking the lid on one of the containers.

"He's...surviving," I said honestly. "What is all this shit?" I asked, trying to divert his attention away from the one thing I really did not want to talk about right now.

I'd meant what I said when I'd told Justin that I wanted to read about his nightmares, and that I would listen to anything he wanted to tell me, but honestly, I was done thinking about it. Done knowing it. It tore me apart almost as much as it did him, and right now, I just needed the refuge. If there were no emergencies, if no one was trying to commit suicide, or having a panic attack or a nightmare or starving themselves or drawing fucking terrifying sketches of their own corpse, if nothing was wrong, if I wasn't needed to save anyone...then I didn't want to. I didn't want to think about it. Justin had said that he was done with the pain, done feeling it every day of his life...well, I was done, too. I would cherish these blissful respites from the tears and suffering as long as they lasted. They were the smallest glimpses of Sunshine through the clouds, when you knew it could start raining again at any second—and probably would—but you just didn't give a shit because right then, it just felt so damn good to not be drowning.

"This is some kind of pasta salad." Either Michael genuinely didn't see that I was trying to change the subject on purpose, or he was grasping onto the hint better than I'd expected, but I was grateful either way. He struggled with the lid of a particularly large container for a moment, until he finally managed to pull up the corner. "And this...well, it _was_ ice-cream. Um, I guess it's liquid chocolate now...?"

"Fabulous."

"What's all this stuff?" Justin had wandered in from the living room, and was poking through the containers with cautious curiosity. He had once again taken the liberty of rifling through my side of the closet, and had found one of my button-down shirts to wear for the night. Not that I really minded...there was something about him wearing my over-sized clothes that made him look all sorts of lesbionic words I'd never admit to thinking. I could never resist exchanging a quick kiss, though, when he came traipsing down the stairs, the sleeves dangling far past his wrists, the shoulders of the shirt hanging off his smaller frame.

"Shit Deb sent over for us," I answered. "Apparently if I'm not eating lunch at the diner, I'm in immediate danger of starving to death." I rolled my eyes, but both of them smiled a little too knowingly at my forced sarcasm.

"So, Messenger Boy, got anymore errands to run?" I asked Mikey as he began stacking a few of the plastic containers on top of each other on the counter.

"Just this one," he replied. "Would you mind calling to tell her that you got the food, though? She won't leave me the fuck alone until she hears from you. You know how she gets."

I did know. Actually, I had a feeling this 'delivery' was less about Debbie helping out and more about an excuse to send Michael to check in on us. "I'll talk to her. I've just been busy," I said, somewhat truthfully. Between my partner trying to kill himself, attending therapy, and monitoring his every fucking move, things had gotten a bit hectic lately.

Fuck, did I honestly just call Justin my partner?

Moving along....

"So, Michael..." Justin spoke up. He looked a bit nervous, uncertain, but pressed on anyway. "Why don't you stay and help us start on some of this food?"

I was surprised. I didn't think he'd want company. He went to his mother's and Daphne's, as well as PIFA—and he _had _gone to Michael before—but he hadn't mentioned anything about possibly seeing any of our other friends. It was like he had just slipped out of life, and he was only beginning to show signs of wanting back in. I had stopped asking him about attending the family dinners, as every time he declined, he'd sort of remove himself from me for a while, that blank look I hated so much settling in behind his eyes.

But this was...pleasant. Sitting around and talking with Michael, Justin at my side. He held my hand under the table, grasping tightly, but he seemed otherwise okay. He was a little more quiet than he ever used to be—he never used to shut up for anything—but he didn't completely remove himself from conversation, either, which was something positive, I supposed. He munched on the lemon bars Debbie had sent us, we each had a beer or two, and caught up.

Gus, according to Michael, had been asking about Justin. Lindsay had brought him by the diner a couple of times, and he seemed to have grown several inches even in the last couple of months; I wondered what Justin's reaction would be when he eventually got around to seeing them all again, if it would be at all awkward.

Debbie, it turned out, was still seeing that detective. The same one that had been the reason Michael had mouthed off to that cop the night of Sap's party, and resulted in me being thrown in jail. What would have happened if things hadn't played out that way? As Justin continued to chat with Michael about the rest of the family, I paused to consider it.

He still would have gone to the party. He hadn't called me, so even if I'd been home, I wouldn't have known to come pick him up. I might have known sooner that he was in trouble, however...he would have missed curfew. I would have become wary, called him...and when he didn't pick up, I would have gone to get him. I vaguely remembered that he'd left the directions to the place on the fridge...though our curfew was three o'clock, so he might not have even still been at Sap's at that time. He most likely still would have been hurt. I just might have known about it sooner.

So many little factors to take into consideration...so many variables that could have changed the course of either of our lives.

I had been keeping up, as much as possible, on the group's gossip these last few months, and always told Justin as much as I remembered, figuring that he might like to at least hear about his friend's lives, even if he had withdrawn himself from them for the time being. I'd mentioned it to him when Michael and Ben had decided to shack up, when Porn-King Ted and Queen Honeycutt had joined the ranks of 'couples' in our little family...and tried to ignore that I had, somewhere along the way, began counting myself among the people that came in pairs in our fucked up little group.

The three of us sat and talked, and there was something about it that was just...familiar, strangely enough. Just like old times, sitting here with Mikey and having a beer, smiling at the beautiful sound of Justin laughing—_laughing—_chatting about our 'family' like nothing had changed. Like we had just been on vacation for the last three months, and were just now getting reacquainted with our lives as they had once been.

It was about ten when Justin excused himself from the table to go take a shower. I followed him with my eyes until he disappeared into the bathroom, but I let him go. Part of our deal. He kept me updated on what was going on inside his mind, and I tried to give him his space. It wasn't easy...I still had that compulsive need to keep him safe, my fear and concern translating into the need for action of some sort. But I was trying to trust him, trying to back off a bit. Though I sat, tense and nervous, until he came out of the bathroom again ten minutes later, grabbed another beer from the fridge, and rejoined us at the table.

It was past eleven when Michael finally left. We said our good-byes, then Justin helped me clean up in the kitchen.

"So," I said, wondering if now was the best time to bring this up or not. Justin had grown more and more withdrawn as the evening wore on, contributing to the conversation less and less, and was now visibly tense once again...like a deer that's just heard an unfamiliar sound inside the forest.

"While you were in the shower, Michael mentioned dinner at Deb's..." I began. People, crowds, being away from the loft...it was all done best in small doses. He was more comfortable around his mother and Daphne than most other people, but a look of incredible relief never failed to wash over his features when I came to get him after work. He'd meet me at the door, wrap his arms around me the moment it was open, slip his fingers in mine and hold on tight until he had to let go to allow me to drive home.

On the other hand, being around the family again, in such a once-familiar environment...it might be good for him. It would be a comfortable, friendly atmosphere...not like the clinic, or Kathy's office...he'd be surrounded by people who cared about him. Michael, Debbie, Lindsay...maybe what he needed right now was a night with his friends. Something _happy. _And it wasn't as though I'd leave him on his own with them all...I'd be right there beside him, literally holding his hand if he needed me to.

"Would you want to think about going?" I asked. He didn't answer for a moment, and didn't seem to realize that if he scrubbed the plate in his hand any harder, it was going to crack in half. I took it gently from his grasp, and began to dry it off.

"I...maybe," he said, his lips turned down in a delicate frown. "I don't know."

"I'd be there," I reminded him. "And we wouldn't have to stay long."

"But they all..." He let out a low breath, avoiding my eyes, staring at the soapy bubbles covering his hands. "They all _know." _

"They won't say a word about it, Justin," I told him firmly. "I promise."

"It's not just that," he said, allowing the running stream of water from the faucet to rinse away the bubbles on his fingers.

"Justin," I said, suddenly realizing what it was that he was so afraid of. Or at least, one of the things. "Look, no one thinks any less of you. They're all you're friends...they just want you to be okay."

"But I can't...I can't go and see them and know what they're thinking..."

"That's fine," I accepted his answer. I knew I shouldn't have brought it up. "We don't have to go. They just...miss you, Justin."

Reaching for the stack of freshly washed-and-dried plates on the counter, I turned away to place them back in the cabinet; when I turned back, Justin was just standing there, his hands still under the running water, though they were quite clean. His eyes were blank, staring unseeingly at the little stream trickling down from the faucet. I shut off the water for him and handed him a towel, but he didn't take it. Shit, what was I thinking, bringing that up? Of course he wasn't ready.

"I want to go."

Or...maybe he was. I raised an eyebrow. "What?" I asked, mostly because it was the only thing I could think of to say.

Slowly, finally, he reached up to take the towel from me. "To Debbie's," he said. "I...I want to go."

"Are you sure?" I asked, surprised and uncertain. "Justin, we don't have to. It's fine. I just thought I'd mention it."

"I want to," he repeated decisively. "I miss them," he said quietly, almost to himself.

"Well...all right then," I agreed, not quite sure what to say. It had been a while since something truly positive had happened in our lives. "Great. I'll tell Debbie we're coming."

He nodded, looking a little lost, still clutching the dish towel in his hands. I moved over to wrap my arms around him, pulling him into me, and kissed the top of his head. "It'll be okay...it's just your friends...it's just dinner."

This was good. Unexpected, but good. Definitely progress.

"Yeah," he breathed into my neck. "That was nice...that Debbie sent food."

I smiled. "See?" I let my fingers tangle themselves in the soft locks of blond at the back of his head. "It's just her and Vic...Lindsay and Melanie and Gus...he'll be happy to see you," I was saying softly, while he held on tight, his arms around my waist. "They all will be. And Michael and Ben will be there, Ted and Emmett..."

"And you," he added, tightening his grip.

"And me," I agreed. And for the first time in a very, very long time, I felt like maybe we were getting somewhere.


	20. Survivor

**A/N: Um, not much to say, except I hope you guys enjoy the chappie :) **

**~. Justin .~**

Sometimes it was difficult to imagine that life went on around me. That there was more to the world than just this loft, this pain that I had struggled with so relentlessly for the last three months. It was almost a stretch to consider the fact that all my friends, my family, everyone I had known or acquainted myself with...they were still moving on. Life itself was still moving on. It was just me that was still standing here, letting it all pass me by.

But that wasn't really true. Not entirely. Just because I had taken a different route than the people outside of my little bubble of tears and anguish and struggle...it didn't mean that I wasn't moving forward, inch by inch. My road had just led me in a different direction, one that didn't quite meld with the rest of them. At least, not yet.

But tomorrow would be it. The first point of intersection, so to speak. My path crossing with those of all the people I had shut out for the past three months. All the people I loved, but up until this point, hadn't been able to deal with. Maybe it was a sign that my life was finally starting to get back on track.

I was nervous. Nervous about what they'd say, what they'd be thinking. Brian promised that they wouldn't mention _it, _and swore that none of them thought any less of me. He told me that I shouldn't be ashamed. That I had done nothing wrong. But how could I not be ashamed? Not only had this thing happened, not only was it a part of my life...but I had _allowed _it to become so. I had gone there, walked right into it. I had let this happen to me. How could I face my friends, my "family," with them knowing that?

Brian, for all his loving support, couldn't seem to understand this. How could he not get it? How could he not see that it was all my fault? That I had brought it all on myself? I'd tried to explain it, tried to let him know exactly where my fears concerning the family lied, but if anything, that had only made things worse.

"It wasn't your choice, Justin," he spat, his hands clenched around the top of the counter as he leaned across it to look me in the eye. "You didn't _allow _anything. It wasn't fucking consensual."

"It doesn't _matter," _I said, just as vehemently. I was still struggling to remember where what had started as a peaceful conversation had taken a turn into..._this._ "It's the same fucking—"

"It is _not _the same fucking thing," Brian cut me off. "Choosing to have sex and being forced into it is _not _the same thing, Justin. Don't tell me you can't see the fucking difference."

Not when I could have avoided it. Not when my own lapse in judgment had been responsible for everything. I might as well have walked into that room and asked them to fuck me senseless. Regardless of what Brian said, it would have been the exact same fucking thing.

Tired of being yelled at as Brian basically defended me from myself, I slipped away to watch some TV in the living room. A few minutes later, his voice strained with the effort of keeping it light, he told me that he was about to make a phone call to Deb, and asked me if I was sure about going to the dinner that weekend. I told him I was.

So I sat in the living room while he chatted with Debbie in the kitchen, supposedly thanking her for the food she'd sent via Michael, and telling her that we'd be there that Saturday for dinner, but I had a sneaking suspicion that he was also warning her to give me my space, and probably telling her to pass the word on to the rest of the family. Though I hated knowing that it would be that way—everyone treating me like the poor little victim, walking on eggshells around me—I really did appreciate it. Debbie could be a lot to handle, especially when one of her "kids" was hurt or in trouble of any sort. She went into overprotective mother-hen mode until she overwhelmed the shit out of you. It was sweet, in a way—her heart was in the right place—it was just a lot to deal with if you weren't prepared. I didn't think I was.

I wondered what the rest of them would be like, wondered if it could really be as easy as just walking into the room and claiming a piece of my life back.

Maybe it would be just like old times. Maybe none of them would treat me like the pathetic victim, the way they had before, and we could just have one night where I wasn't Justin Taylor, The Kid Who Got Raped, or Justin Taylor, The Kid Who Got Bashed. I could just be Justin. Just their friend. Just me, free from all the strings that came along with that. Just for one night, I would be stepping back into my old life, into the old Justin Taylor's shoes...and finding out exactly how much had changed in the last three months. How much had been changed _by _the last three months.

I wondered if it would be awkward. I wondered if they would all treat me the same. I wondered if I could really just have a night to myself—my old self—surrounded by my friends, laughing and eating and joking. I wondered if I could honestly just be happy.

Sometimes, I thought I'd forgotten what that felt like.

~.~

It was Friday evening. The day before the dinner, but for the first time since I'd agreed to go, I wasn't thinking about that. I wasn't thinking about the family, or therapy, or my dreams or Brian. None of the usual things that plagued my mind with worry.

I was on the couch in front of the TV again, barely realizing that the show I had been watching had long since ended. It was only when the following program was well into its airtime that Brian plopped down on the sofa beside me.

"You hate this show," he pointed out. I could sense his hesitation, though I knew it wouldn't last long. He settled back into the cushions, pretending to be interested in whatever was on the screen that I wasn't paying attention to. The moment it went to commercial, he seemed to have had enough of waiting for me to say something, his desire to get to the bottom of my exceptionally distant attitude apparently ranking over everything else.

"Are you okay?" When I only shrugged, he frowned, seemed to deliberate for a moment, then continued. "Justin, we don't have to go to the dinner tomorrow. I'll call Deb..." he began.

"I'm fine," I told him, though I knew trying to get Brian to actually let something go was roughly the equivalent of ordering the earth to stop orbiting the sun...it just wasn't going to happen.

"You've been quiet all day," he said, as if I hadn't realized. "Justin, I mean it, we don't have to go."

"It's not that," I dismissed his concerns. Which, I realized too late, was only an invitation for new, most likely worse, ones.

"Then...what?" he asked, reaching over to gently run his fingers through my hair. The hair I had no intention of cutting, as it was practically a magnet for those innocent little gestures of Brian's. I didn't even think he really realized he did things like that...those couple-y little things like playing with my hair, holding my hand for no reason while we watched movies.

"Nothing," I muttered, closing my eyes. It was a lie, of course, but I had a good reason, and it wasn't just for my own sake this time. I didn't want him worrying over it. Chances were, it really was nothing. I was just being paranoid.

"We had a deal, Justin," he reminded me. Right. Our new rules. I'd give him free access to my thoughts whenever he wanted it, and he'd give me space to breathe. Or at least, try to. He'd been doing a lot better, but sometimes it seemed he just couldn't help his need to protect me. He was still setting the alarm at night to lock me in, still making go to my mother's or Daphne's during the day while he worked...I supposed I should be thankful he was letting me close the door to the bathroom now when I showered.

I sighed. "It's...it's just the clinic. My tests." I didn't realize how ominous this sounded until his hand suddenly stilled in my hair. His voice was sharp when he demanded elaboration.

"What did they say?"

"They didn't," I assured him, wishing I'd thought the comment through a little more. "That's the problem. They haven't called yet. What do you think that means?" I wondered aloud.

He let out a long breath, his hand resuming the stroking of my hair. "Probably that they haven't gotten your results yet," he said gently. "It's probably nothing, Justin."

I nodded. I knew this, of course. It wasn't as though they'd never taken this long before—sometimes it had even taken longer—it was just that it had never been so vital.

This was the three-month check up. The three-month checkpoint. If anything was wrong, seriously wrong...there was a much more likely chance that it would show up this time around. I was halfway there. Halfway to not having to be afraid, not having to imagine what-if's or could-be's...after that, I was safe. Maybe forever, because it could just be that long before I ever had sex again.

Things had pretty much remained the same, physically, with Brian and I for the last several weeks, maybe longer. I could hug him, I could kiss him...but that was about it. I couldn't wake him up with a blow-job, I couldn't let him soothe me through fucking when I woke up from a nightmare. I supposed I was better off than I'd been those first few weeks after it had happened...at least now, I could stand to be in the same room when one of us dressed. Though part of that had been less about discomfort than about Brian's inability to keep his hands off me, particularly when I wasn't wearing any clothes. Not to mention the marks and bruises I'd had to hide back then.

So what happened now? How was I supposed to force myself through these things? It was like a wall, a solid brick wall had erected itself in my life, constantly holding me back, even as I scrambled to find a way around it. I'd tried climbing it, tried pushing my way through it, I'd tried everything...and every time, I was met with the same results...slamming straight into the brick. No way through it. No way not to hear the voices, feel the touches, the pain, the fear...everything that I associated with sex now.

All the memories of Brian and I, late at night in bed, or the early mornings in the shower...all the wonderful memories I had of the two of us together, overshadowed by _them. _The sensation of them inside me, roughness and pain...their tongues as they were shoved down my throat, slimy and unwelcome. I could remember _having _sex with Brian, remember that it felt amazing, that I used to love it...but I couldn't quite remember the exact sensations like I could before. I couldn't remember what it felt like to have him down my throat, what he tasted like...just that I used to love the flavor that was him. I couldn't remember what it felt like to have him inside me...just that it used to feel good. Now, I just remembered them. I just tasted them. I just felt _them. _

It wasn't fair...why did I have to remember Gary and the others, but I couldn't remember Brian? Why was it that, every time I even thought about trying to take things further with him, _they _would be there, and nothing else could get around that? Because they had created the wall. They had built an entire tower around what Brian and I used to have, and they weren't about to let me anywhere near where I wanted to be.

"It's been a week," I told him softly. Maybe it wouldn't even matter if I was positive or not, if I was never having sex again. No chance of getting Brian sick. And that was what it was all about, right? Condoms, playing it safe, getting tested...so we didn't spread diseases to each other.

I didn't mention this to Brian. I knew perfectly well that he wouldn't see it the same way. He wasn't concerned about what it meant for us if I was sick...he worried about me. Just me. What it meant for my health, my physical well-being. And maybe a part of me was, too, but there was also a small, angry part that said I was getting just what I'd asked for.

"Yeah...well, it's taken this long before, hasn't it?" he pointed out.

I didn't answer. Yes, it had taken this long before, but it had never felt so important. Maybe there was also something still inside me, some part that was still hoping and fighting and struggling against the weight of my misery...some part that really, really wanted to be okay. Sometimes it was just hard to hear that particular voice.

"Brian?" I asked after a moment of mutual silence. "What if I'm positive?" _What-if, what-if, what-if. _Possibility into reality.

He took his time to answer. "Well...what do you mean?" he asked slowly.

I knew the health problems it presented. I knew it wasn't an easy thing to live with. But that wasn't what I was asking.

_If _I could ever be with Brian again...what would it mean? If I was positive, would he ever give us the chance? "I mean...for us? What will it mean for us?" There was a second when I was sure he wouldn't answer, not after I had just put us together like that...asking what it meant for our _future_. Brian didn't do future-talks well.

Once again, it was a few moments before he answered me. "I'm not going anywhere Justin," he said softly. "And neither are you."

Always comforting to hear, but he had already told me that the last time I'd gotten tested. That it wouldn't matter if I was positive, that he would stand by me either way. I loved him for it, but that still wasn't what I'd meant. "I mean..." might as well say it, "sex, Brian. Assuming that I can ever have sex again..."

"You will, Justin," he interrupted me. "It's not a question of _if, _it's a question of _when."_

"You don't know that."

"I do," he assured me. "We'll think positive...so to speak."

Right. Thinking positive...that was what Kathy had told us. We'd mentioned our lack of a sex life to her, my inability to allow myself to be touched, and we'd discussed it in depth during the last therapy session. I'd told her_, _my cheeks flaming with shame, that I hadn't gotten an erection since the party. She said that this was perfectly normal, that physically I had nothing to worry about. That it was a mental matter, that my mind was still recovering. She told me to never try and push myself if I wasn't comfortable with something, that it would all come back when I was ready. _Think positive, _she had said, _don't push yourself, but don't give up. _I hoped she was right, that eventually it would all come back to me, but sometimes I seriously wondered if what some people labeled as 'hope' was really just denial.

"If—or when—I can have sex again..." I said, with only a hint of aggravation at Brian's optimistic attitude. "If I'm positive..." I let the question hang in the air, thickening the very oxygen between us, making it difficult to breathe.

"That's what condoms are for, Justin," he pointed out. "We've always been safe. It'll be the same as if you're negative."

"It _won't," _I insisted. Maybe physically, but emotionally, it couldn't be more different. "How do you think I'd fucking feel if I gave it to you?"

"That's something we'd deal with," he assured me. "Besides, there's less of a chance of you giving it to me if you're on the...receiving end," he said awkwardly, averting his eyes.

It was weird, this uneasiness between us at the topic of sex. I never imagined it would be difficult to discuss it with Brian, considering it had always been one of our favorite subjects. But we _were _talking about it...that had to be a good sign, right? A step in the right direction? And if I was thinking about what it might be like, even if it did have to do with the potential of having HIV...just the fact that I could consider the possibility of someday having sex again without totally freaking out had to mean _something,_ right?

"A lot of people deal with it, Justin," Brian continued. Maybe they did, but we weren't _a lot of people. _We were us. "Look at Michael and Ben."

"That's different," I said at once. Why couldn't he get that?

"How?" he asked, obviously bemused.

"Because I couldn't fucking live with myself if I got you sick, Brian," I snapped. "How would you feel if you gave it to me?"

He didn't seem to have an answer to that one. He opened his mouth halfway, shut it, then opened it again. "Justin...we don't even know whether or not you're positive. Whatever happens, we'll deal with it when the time comes. You don't need to stress yourself out over it right now, all right?"

Easy for him to say...he was at least relatively safe. He had the precaution of condoms to count on—I had nothing. There was every likelihood that someone at that party had infected me, that I had this illness inside me now. The permanent mark of what I had gone through.

"It'll never be the same, will it?" I asked sadly, almost whispering so that he couldn't hear the waver in my voice.

"What won't?"

"Sex."

"We don't know if—"

"Not just if I'm positive," I interrupted him. Even if I was negative...would it ever feel _right _again? Would it ever be fun, or even somewhat pleasurable? What if I could never do it again? What if Brian was only living on the hope that I would someday be able to be with him the way I used to? If it was years...or longer...would he still keep me around? Even if I could have sex again, it would never be like it was, that much I was sure of. "I mean just...in general. It won't be the same." _I _wouldn't be the same. I never would be.

He sighed. "Maybe, maybe not," he admitted. "I don't know. But it's not...it's not everything, Justin. Sex isn't everything. There are more...important things about recovering than that."

I almost snorted at the irony of that statement, coming from him. I had thought that he, of all people, would understand this, but apparently not.

"What about...after you were bashed, Justin?" he asked. I looked over at him in surprise; he never liked to bring that up. Ever. It was usually just one of those off-limit topics that we'd developed some silent agreement to never mention. "Remember the first time we tried to have sex after that?"

Of course I remembered. I had been almost as much of a mess then as I was now. Terrified of everything and everyone. My skin crawling at the thought of anyone touching me, so scared of any type of physical contact. Trapped inside my own body, my own skin.

"You freaked out. Told me to stop," he reminded me when I didn't answer him.

"I remember," I said, mostly because I didn't want him to continue.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You couldn't let anyone touch you. Even me. Did you ever think you'd have sex again after that?"

I tried to remember, tried to recall exactly what had been going through my mind that first night back here with him. "I wasn't thinking about that. I was just...frustrated. I couldn't do anything I wanted. I couldn't draw, I couldn't be with you...everything was falling apart."

He nodded. "And then...you remembered what happened. At Gus's birthday party. And we came back here, and..." he let his voice trail off. Of course I remembered that night, that time. I wouldn't forget it as long as I lived. I remembered thinking that it was the first time Brian and I had ever _made love, _rather than just fucked. Of course, I could never say it to him, but that night had meant everything to me. Second first times and blood stained scarves and ethereal blue lights...and Brian.

"Was that the same? Or even after that? Did things get back to normal?"

"That's different, Brian," I told him. God, that was so different.

"Maybe," he agreed. "But the point is, things got better. And things will get better again, Justin. It's like Kathy said...it just takes time."

I was so sick of people telling me that. It took _time..._all wounds healed with fucking _time.... _Well, maybe I didn't have that much time. Maybe I didn't want to. It was so easy for all of them to say. But what about if they had to live it? Time was the enemy when you spent all of yours suffering.

"It's a little ironic, isn't it?" I asked acidly.

"What is?"

"That what helped me before was remembering," I explained. "And now all I want to do is forget."

**~. Brian .~**

It was easy to believe what I was saying when I was reassuring Justin. That was my role. That was what I did for him. Not lying...I never lied to him...but I gave him the most sugary version of honesty that I could.

To myself, however, I could admit the truth: the concerns he presented were very real possibilities. He could be positive. He may never want to have sex again. His entire life may have been permanently affected by what had happened that night three months ago. It was just something we could have to deal with.

Before the party, before the bashing, before I could admit even to myself that I loved him...things might have been different. I had told myself, back then, that all we had, all we were together...was one explosive sexual dynamic. That I only kept him around because I liked to fuck him, and he happened to be a constantly willing volunteer.

It was pathetic that I'd ever believed that.

It was a load of shit, because if all I truly wanted from him was sex, he'd have been out the door already. He would have been gone, and I would have been able to move on. If it had just been sex—no matter how admittedly amazing—I wouldn't have gone to his prom. I wouldn't have let him move in after he was bashed. And I wouldn't be sitting here with him today trying to assuage his deepest fears. If it had just been sex, I wouldn't have accepted his health and well-being as my _own _deepest fear.

He remained distant and moody for the rest of the day. I knew better than to take it personally...it was just his way of processing his fear. His pain management. I knew all about that. Trouble at work? Fuck your way through Babylon. Friend-and-family drama? Treat yourself to your favorite recreational drug. Boyfriend gets bashed in the head? Drink yourself into an early grave.

**~Saturday~**

I knew he was nervous. I knew he hadn't eaten anything since the breakfast I'd practically forced down his throat. And I knew, though he had been sitting on the couch for over an hour with the TV on, that he wasn't paying it the slightest bit of attention.

I had asked him a good half a dozen times whether or not he was absolutely sure about dinner at Deb's that night, but he'd merely barked that he was fine, that he said he would go, so he was going.

Finally, I got the hint and stopped asking.

I waited as long as possible to leave, half expecting him to suddenly change his mind and announce that he didn't want to go after all. Finally, however, I could put it off no longer.

"Hey Sunshine," I called from the kitchen. He was still in the living room with the TV on, though he had spent the last two hours drawing away in one of his sketchbooks. "I thought we'd leave in about twenty minutes, if you want to get ready."

He muttered something in response, but I didn't catch it. His mind was made up, however; he stood, tossed his sketchpad aside, and headed off towards the bedroom. Setting down my bottle of water on the counter, I went over to turn off the TV, glancing at his discarded drawing pad on the couch cushion.

It was part of our deal...I got to read his therapy log, look at his sketches, and the lines of communication were to remain open between us at all times. That was what we'd agreed to. However, I wasn't trying to smother him, nor did I want it to seem like I was always checking up on him, as though he were in some kind of psychiatric facility. I wasn't trying to fucking _imprison _him. I just wanted to know that he was safe. I wanted to know when he was hurting, and what was hurting him, so that I could help.

Fighting back the nerves that ate away at me every time I had to consider the possibility of him in pain, I braced myself for what I would find in the sketchpad. I knew he still had an entire notebook filled with drawings of Sap and his other aggressors, and while I didn't like them, he needed to deal with this in his own way, and that was through art. That was just who he was, what he did. He was an artist through and through.

Besides, he also had nearly an entire pad full of drawings of me. They weren't what I was used to from him, back before all this...the sensual, erotic creations that had been his specialty...but they were of me smiling, me with my arms around him. There was even one of me biting into an apple. I'd almost ripped this one out of the little book just so that I could keep it. It was something the old Justin would have drawn, something so unbelievably normal that I'd just wanted to hold onto it.

These sketchpads had become a sort of mood indicator with him. When he was feeling particularly distressed or upset, he would bring out the dismal gray colored pad, the one containing most of his Sapperstein drawings. It was a warning when I saw this one out; it let me know that for whatever reason, he was feeling especially troubled and needed my help.

When he was in a somewhat relaxed state, when he just wanted to draw for the sake of drawing, it was a green sketchpad. This was the one with the drawings of me, of random scenes and objects that caught his artists' eye. This was the one, to my relief, that he had thrown onto the couch cushion when he'd gotten up. I picked it up, my nerves dissipating a bit, and flipped it open to his newest creation.

I smiled.

"This is good," I told him as he came down the steps a few minutes later, pulling his favorite blue T-shirt over his head. It just so happened that it was my favorite shirt of his, too; though I often teased him about his lack of style, I couldn't deny that he looked fucking stunning in that shade of blue.

He glanced at the drawing I was brandishing at him. "I was just doodling," he shrugged.

His 'doodle' comprised of the eleven people who would be attending dinner tonight. Deb and Vic, Mikey and the Professor, Ted and Emmett, the Munchers, Gus, and the two of us. We were all grouped around the table, smiles on our faces, the bond between us all apparent to anyone who even looked at the sketch. He had drawn us the way he remembered us...there were little things that had changed, a haircut or two, and the like. Ted and Emmett were a lot more—affectionate—since they had gotten together, but in his drawing they were sitting two chairs apart.

But there were other things that just made it _click. _Things that just set it off, made us _us. _The way he had drawn Gus situated on top of Lindsay's lap, or the way the Professor's hand rested innocently over Mikey's on the tabletop. The part that drew my eyes, however, was the smiling interpretations of the two of us, at our usual corner of the table. We weren't even touching, but the look being exchanged between us, even in sketch-form, meant more than if he had drawn us kissing.

Any doubts I'd had about this evening vanished, as if this were no big deal, no huge step in his recovery. As if we'd done this just last weekend. I was sure now.

He was ready.

~.~

I kept up a flow of nearly one-sided conversation the whole way to Deb's place. He occasionally muttered something in response, but kept quiet for the most part. I tried to keep his mind off less pleasant topics, such as the fact that the clinic still hadn't called with his results, or the idea that in a matter of minutes, he'd be surrounded by the family he'd hidden himself from for the last three months.

I'd wanted to get there early, to give him time to get comfortable instead of plunging him right into the mob, but I recognized Michael's car as we pulled up and stepped out of the jeep. He kept a tight hold on my hand on the way up to the house, taking a final deep breath before I reached up to rap lightly on the door.

"It'll be okay," I whispered. He nodded.

I hadn't seen a true Sunshine smile in months, but the expression on Debbie's face as she pulled open the door could have rivaled Justin's infectious grins that had earned him his nickname.

"_Sunshine!" _she gasped breathlessly. "Come in!"

I'd given her a fair warning, and made sure the rest of them knew it as well. Under no circumstances were they to mention anything about what had happened. It wasn't really a fair request to ask them not to make a big deal out of Justin's sudden reappearance, though I'd tried. I would do my best to keep things relaxed and easy, but I couldn't really expect them all not to be happy to see him again. Besides, maybe it was a good thing that he see how much they'd missed him.

Justin allowed himself to be swept into a bone-crushing hug the second we had stepped over the threshold. I was ready to go and pry him free from Debbie's grasp, but he surprised me, letting go of my fingers to wrap her in a reciprocal embrace. He was smiling just a bit when she let him go, and I could have sworn I saw a tear in Deb's eye, though she turned away rather quickly.

"You've got lipstick on your cheek," I muttered to him as we followed Debbie into the kitchen. He grimaced and tried to wipe it off, leaving behind a faint pink smudge.

Vic, Michael, and Ben were already seated around the table, and each and every one of them erupted into wide smiles when they saw who it was, turning around in their seats to get a better look over their shoulders. After that, it was just a chaotic few minutes of grinning and greetings and welcoming exclamations of delight. Justin, though his grip on my hand was strong enough to splinter the bone, was smiling when he took a seat beside me.

"That smells delicious, Deb," he said when she plopped down in a chair beside Vic.

"Oh thanks, honey," she said, her own grin broadening. I had feeling it wouldn't even slip tonight; this was cheerful, even for her.

We all sat and talked for a while, and Justin seemed to relax a bit. He allowed some of the feeling to surge back into my fingers, at any rate. He leaned back in his chair, trying to chat with Michael over my shoulder, though Debbie was actively making this difficult by not allowing his attention to stray from her for more than twenty seconds at a time. She'd really missed him. They all had.

I hadn't even realized when it had happened, but somewhere in the nearly two years I'd known him, Justin had adopted my little family of friends. Or maybe they had adopted him, but but however it had happened, he had become a part of this fucked up group, just like the rest of us. Maybe tonight would help convince him that once you were in, it was pretty much a permanent membership. He was one of the gang now.

About ten minutes had gone by when there was another knock at the door. Debbie stood up to get it, but Michael waved her down. "I'll get it, Ma. Just sit." Justin's hand tightened its hold on mine, and I squeezed his fingers reassuringly.

Fifteen seconds later, a little ball of energy came tearing into the room, there was a loud screech of, _"Jus'n!" _then Gus practically threw himself into Justin's arms. Melanie and Lindsay followed a moment later, Michael at their heels. Once again, there was an almost euphoric scene of greeting and hugging and kissing playing out inside the kitchen; Lindsay's face erupted into a smile as she tried to hug Justin around Gus, who hadn't made a move to let go of his_ "Jus'n's" _neck. Melanie, her arms around his shoulders, pressed a kiss to his cheek, the one without the pink lipstick smudge, thankfully not leaving any makeup behind this time. And though both of the Munchers muttered to Gus to give Justin some room to breath, Justin smiled softly and assured them that it was okay. He gave Gus his rapt attention as my three-year-old son began to describe the "funnest" new toy his mothers had bought him. Even I had to smile at this; there was just something about seeing my Sunshine and my Sonny-Boy together that I couldn't explain. My own fucked up, unconventional version of a family, though I'd gladly die before admitting that thought to anyone.

A little while later, Ted and Emmett arrived, disgustingly lovey-dovey enough to make anyone sick, and for the first time in three months, the whole gang was there. Reunited. It was almost as though we'd stepped back in time, to an evening three months earlier. Almost. It was a give and take; Melanie and I shot a few insults across the table while Lindsay rolled her eyes, Vic cracked a few sex jokes at Ted and Emmett's expense, and Debbie joined in until I shot them both a glare to shut them up. Gus sat on Justin's lap for a while, until he decided he'd rather sit on Melanie's lap instead, and eat half her dessert. Michael referenced some stupid Captain Astro comic, and Ben enlightened us all about a paper he was writing on some randomly boring subject.

Justin ate just enough to be polite, and though at home I would have insisted that he force down at least a few more bites, especially considering that he'd barely eaten anything all day...I let it go, ignoring that nagging feeling in my stomach that I got whenever I noticed that he wasn't taking care of himself. His chair was situated as close as it could get to mine without him literally sitting directly on top of me, and his hand was still wrapped tightly in mine under the table...but he was smiling and laughing, talking and joking with the rest of them, a bit more reserved than usual, but he seemed okay, for the most was enjoying himself, something that hadn't happened in far too long. I never thought I'd be so glad to see someone smile; it was such a welcome contrast to the tears I had seen in his eyes on a regular basis for far too long. Even if this only lasted a few minutes, if we blinked and it disappeared...at least he had this moment not to be afraid, to let go of all the worries and pain he carried on his shoulders every day. This moment to be free of them, free of fear.

He had this moment to forget.

**~. Justin .~**

I had been nervous. Worse than nervous. I'd been scared...so terrified that I'd lost a part of me that I could never get back, the part of me that belonged to my family and friends.

They never told you that losing everything and everyone in your life was part of the deal when something occurred like what had happened to me. It was almost a given that you lost out on full nights' sleep, your desire to live, any hopes or goals you had for yourself. It was to be expected that you lost any sense of control you'd ever had. But they failed to mention that you lost—if only by your own choice—every friend and family member you knew. I'd exiled myself. I'd removed myself from life. From the people I cared about most.

I was just so grateful that they were letting me back in again.

I'd expected it from my mother, maybe. I knew she'd be upset to learn what had happened, and I'd been afraid of what she would think of me. But I also knew, however deep down, that she would always welcome me back. I'd even expected it from Daphne, to an extent. My best friend since forever. She'd been there since the beginning, and always would be.

But the rest of them...Debbie, Michael, Lindsay...all Brian's 'family.' Admittedly, they had accepted me into the fold a long time ago, but that didn't mean that they would take me back if I chose to push them away.

Or maybe it did. Because they had.

They didn't care what had happened. Well, they _cared, _they felt sorry for me...but it didn't matter to them if I was a bashing victim or a rape victim...to them I was just Justin. I was forced to conclude that Brian had been right; they just wanted me to be okay.

I ate dinner with Gus on my lap, and Debbie chattering away across from me, ignoring her plate full of food. She didn't stop smiling all night, keeping up a seamless flow of conversation about any and all topics she could conjure up.

Michael, to my relief, still didn't seem to hate me. I thought I deserved at least a little bitterness over selling him out to Brian—however unintentional that had been—but he talked to me and joked with me just like he had a few nights before when we'd been sitting around Brian's table, eating and catching up.

Lindsay and Melanie had literally welcomed me with open arms. All I remembered was a sudden whirlwind of kisses and _Honey's _and three-year-old ramblings about new toys. Emmett and Ted had arrived after them. With a loud exclamation of '_Baby!' _Em had wrapped me in a hug, and his happiness was so exuberant that I'd missed whatever Ted had said to me.

And Brian had been right there the entire time. There were a few instances where I'd just needed to reach for him, know that he was there; there were a lot of people in that tiny space, and it was a lot to deal with. But I made it, and I'd actually had a not-too-bad time. It had been nice to forget about everything for a while, push it aside and get lost in the cheery atmosphere my 'family' seemed to project. I could almost pretend that all the horridness I had to deal with, all the pain and suffering, was part of some distant life, a nightmare I didn't have to deal with right now, and just laugh and talk with my friends.

All this aside, however, by the time everyone started talking about leaving, I was ready to go. I'd had fun, but I really just wanted to be back in the loft with Brian's arms around me, maybe watching a movie or something. I hadn't wanted to leave way before everyone else, wanting to at least stick it out until the end...but I felt as though I'd just been fading as the night went on, the happiness and relief dissipating bit by bit...like medicine that was starting to wear off. Best to take it all in small doses.

So after dessert, after Gus had fallen asleep on Melanie's lap, after Debbie had practically forced Brian—who had bickered and argued even as he admitted defeat—to eat a second helping of blueberry pie...it was time to go.

Brian muttered to me that he had to use the bathroom and would be right back, before leaving me in the living room with Lindz, Mel, and a soundly sleeping Gus. We said our goodbyes, and then they were off, Gus's head lolling on Melanie's shoulder. Michael was helping Debbie finish cleaning up in the kitchen, though as Lindsay, Ben, and Vic had all lent a hand as well, there wasn't much left to do. I'd offered to help as well, but Debbie had refused and literally chased me out of the kitchen. It was probably for the best anyway; they were all starting to make me somewhat jittery.

"Bye, Baby!" Emmett and Ted had come to retrieve their coats from the living room before taking off.

"Bye, Em," I said, trying not to tense up when he threw his arms around me. During the rare moment that his eyes were not magnetically fixed to Ted's, I had caught him staring at me, almost sadly. Actually, I'd caught a couple of those types of looks from the group. It was a little uncomfortable, like they were waiting for something. The last time I'd felt anything like that had been during the night of the party, all those guys, those _looks,_ foretelling my inevitable future. But these were just looks of concern from my friends. Maybe they were waiting for me to suddenly freak out, waiting for some indication that things were not as normal as we tried to pretend. Honestly, I'd been waiting for it, too. It was just so weird to be able to push It aside, to take a breath and live outside of it for just a few hours. It seemed almost impossible, too good to be true that I could really just be...okay. Normal.

"Are you coming again next week?" Emmett asked, pulling away and letting go of me.

I considered it for a half a second. That was all it took. There had been difficult parts, I'd known there would be...but I'd honestly had a good time. A good enough time to not want to give it up. "Yeah," I decided on the spot.

He beamed. "Fabulous. We'll see you later then, Baby."

Ted clapped me on the shoulder. "It was good to see you again, Justin," he said seriously.

"You guys, too," I said honestly. "I guess I'll see you next week, then?"

"We'll be here," Ted assured me, and with a final goodbye, he followed Emmett out the door, hand in hand.

"So will I," I breathed, closing the door behind them.

Brian had been right, they really were too nauseating for their own good, as I'd seen through dinner. It had been a little awkward to watch, not only for all the obvious reasons, but it hurt just a bit, too, especially when Debbie was making cracks about them fucking on the table and Vic was offering to tape it. It reminded me of the way Brian and I used to be accused of being "nauseating" in our own right. Not in the mushy way Ted and Emmett were, but he was always shoving his tongue down my throat in public and snaking his hand up my thigh...I'd always have my lips at his ear or my arms around his neck or a hand in his back pocket...we'd always be touching. Now, I just grasped his fingers under the table and ate one-handed so I didn't have to let go.

"Hey."

I looked up. Ben, who presumably had come to grab his and Michael's coats from the couch, offered me a small smile when he saw me standing there, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

"Hey," I answered, sliding onto a vacant couch cushion next to Brian's favorite leather jacket. "How've you been?" Between Gus's rambling about toy race cars, Debbie gushing over me and asking if I wanted more meatloaf, and ignoring Ted and Emmett's exhibition of first-stage foreplay on the other side of the table, I hadn't gotten to talk to Ben much.

"Not bad," he said fairly. "How about you?"

I knew it wasn't a serious question, that he'd only asked to be polite. But I answered honestly, just the same.

"I'm...surviving," I told him, figuring that this was the best that could really be said. I tried to smile, and hoped it was convincing enough to be considered casual.

Ben nodded. "Sometimes just surviving is an achievement in itself," he said knowingly. That was the thing about Ben...he made life seem so—easy. A simple philosophy, like a fortune cookie. It was what had earned him the nickname Brian had secretly christened him with...Zen Ben. Unshakable, unwavering.

"Um, Ben?" I called as he turned around to head back into the kitchen, his and Michael's jackets slung over his arm.

He turned back, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"

"Is it..." I took a deep breath, immediately wishing I hadn't spoken. It was just...I'd realized something, something important...and in a burst of impulsiveness, I suddenly had to know. He was the only one...the only one who could answer me.

"Is it...really horrible?" I hesitated, then pressed on. "To be HIV positive?" I almost whispered, as though somewhere in my subconscious, I was hoping he wouldn't hear me. Wouldn't answer. Maybe I didn't want the answer. I didn't even know why I had suddenly thought of this, but if anyone could answer the questions I had, could understand...it would be the man standing in front of me.

Ben seemed to consider this. "Well...emotionally, or physically?" he asked carefully, as though weighing every word before allowing it to slip through his lips. I shrugged. Both, I supposed.

"Physically...it can be tough," he admitted grimly. "It's all about staying healthy. Exercising. Eating right. Taking whatever medication you need. And even then, there's always the chance that the next time you sneeze, you could end up in the hospital."

I was nodding, taking this in. I knew, physically, that it wouldn't be easy. But I had still wanted, needed, to hear it from him. "And...emotionally?" I prompted.

"Emotionally, it's...survivable," he said, frowning slightly. "If you want to survive."

That was the whole thing, wasn't it? The key to getting past anything. You had to want it. Be a survivor instead of a victim. You heard all those stories about cancer survivors and rape survivors and all the shit people have gone through. So how did you discern the survivors from the victims?

Well, I'd survived the bashing, I supposed. I'd lived. Maybe that was what made me a survivor then. But what had happened at that party hadn't been a matter of life and death. There was no critical live or die moment like there had been in the ambulance, my life hanging in the balance. Well, I wasn't counting what had occurred on the roof. Brian had stepped in then. It didn't count. If he hadn't shown up, I_ would _have been a rape victim, in every sense of the term. Because what had happened to me, that experience...it would have won. It would have exercised its control over the very last aspect of my life, and I would have ceased to exist.

But I was here. Maybe only because of Brian, but I was here. I was in therapy. I was trying. Hadn't I proved that by coming to dinner? I was giving it everything I had. Nothing in the world could be harder, but...I was working on it. Was that what a survivor was? Someone like Ben, who, despite the pain and hardship, despite everything...kept fighting? Was that the answer?

"Justin..." Ben said suddenly, his voice sharp, but carefully controlled, as always. "Do you...are you positive?" he asked, taking a tiny step towards me.

"I..." I sighed. Was I? There was a very likely chance...but as far as I knew, right here and now...no. I wasn't. "I don't know. I still have some tests to do. I just had my three-month check up about a week ago. I haven't gotten the results back yet," I told him dully.

He nodded, looking relieved. Slowly, he strode back across the room, sinking onto the couch next to me.

"It's not the end of the world," he told me. Somehow, this meant so much more than Brian's earlier assurances, his promises that we would "deal with it." It wasn't that I didn't appreciate Brian being so caring, so supportive...it was just that he was trying to deal with it all, too. He was telling me what I wanted to hear. And maybe it was the truth, but it wasn't the truth I needed from him right now. He couldn't give me that.

"I mean, it was hard at first," he continued next to me. "When I was first diagnosed...I had pretty much the same reaction as anyone would. I thought it was all over."

I could understand that, that feeling of being so far in, you'd never be able to get back out. Like it was too much to be trapped inside your life, inside what it had become. I had existed within this sensation of misery for three months.

"It was like this _thing..._constantly inside me. Everything I did, every day, it was there," Ben said thoughtfully. "You wake up every morning, and remember that it's part of your life." Something else I understood far too well.

"So...how did you get over that?" I asked quietly.

"I didn't, for a while. It was...terrifying...to think about the future," he mused. "Where I was going to end up, if I'd be healthy...and it scared me. But pretty soon, it was a week after I was diagnosed. And then a month. And then a year..." he offered me a wry smile. "And, the weird thing was, it all had just...worked out without me even realizing it. I mean, it was hard, and it still is...but every day, you're moving through it. You're getting past it, whether you realize it or not."

For a moment, I forgot what he was talking about. I forgot he was still on the topic of HIV, of testing positive. Whether I had realized it or not, it had been happening...I'd been moving through this, whatever it was. Three months later, I was still surviving.

"Whatever your tests come back as, Justin...even if they're positive...it's not the end. The worst thing you can do is let yourself get wrapped up in it. The trick is to find the good things and hold on. I've got my life, I'm relatively healthy, and happy...I've got a job I love, I've got Michael...I've got a lot of blessings to be thankful for," he said matter-of-factly. Just so...accepting of his fate. Accepting of the fact that life had given him a load of shit to deal with. Because somehow, he'd learned how to look past that. Deal with it, take it as part of his life, and smile because he still had so much good to live for.

Maybe someday I'd be able to do that, too.

"You've just got to hold on, Justin, until you can see all that again," he said seriously, fixing me with a look, and once again I wondered if he was really just talking about being positive. "It's like waiting for a cloud to move past the sun. It feels like you'll be waiting forever, but once it happens, you remember why it was worth it in the first place."

I smiled, just a little bit. That was Ben. A writer until his last breath, drawing metaphors with words and inspiration with that inherent sensation of balance he seemed to emit. I knew the feeling...I was the same way with my art. The best way to express myself. Breathing through creation. "You know, I might actually read that book you wrote," I said, glancing over at him.

He chuckled. "I'd be honored."

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the doorway.

"You ready to go, Sunshine?" Brian asked. I nodded, and stood up.

"Um, thanks, Ben," I muttered, praying that Brian didn't ask what we'd been talking about. I really didn't want to have the HIV conversation again, not right now. I just wanted it over with. The waiting was almost worse, the what-if's torturing you until you wanted to scream and demand to know the fucking truth already. Knowing would be easier than living in this fear.

"Any time," Ben smiled. He seemed to hesitate for a second. "Uh, if you ever need to talk about...anything...just call."

I nodded. "Thanks," I said sincerely. We all said our goodbyes, ventured back into the kitchen once more to hug and thank Debbie (who shoved enough food into our arms to feed an army), and then we were out the door. Brian swung a protective arm around my shoulders as we headed out to the car, one foot in front of the other, taking it step by step until we could be home again.

**~. Brian .~**

"So...how was it?" I asked him on the drive home, tearing my eyes away from the road for a quick glance at him. He seemed to have had a pretty good time, talking and laughing with the rest of the family. He'd had his tense moments, especially as the night wore on, but all in all, I thought it had gone rather well.

"It was nice," he admitted. "Fun."

I smiled. "Do you want to come back next week? Debbie said she'll fix whatever you want. 'Sunshine's choice,' as she put it."

"Yeah," he said, and I was pleased to hear the note of certainty in his voice. "I want to come back. It was nice, seeing everyone again."

"I told you they missed you," I said gently. That much had been obvious from everyone's reactions to seeing him there. They must have known it beforehand, since Debbie did, and there were no secrets where she was concerned...but they all seemed to be a bit surprised anyway, as though they hadn't really expected him to go through with it. If I was honest, I was a little surprised myself. "So, how do you feel?" I prompted.

He shrugged. "I just...want to be home." I could understand that. He'd had an eventful night, and though this was an admittedly huge step in his recovery, it was best to take baby steps. He didn't need to push himself. So if another night in front of the TV, entwined together on the couch, watching _Yellow Submarine _for the millionth time more than was strictly healthy, was what he needed...then fine. He deserved a night of comfort and relaxation after the huge step he'd proven himself capable of taking.

A silence descended upon us, remaining stubbornly in the car for the rest of the ride home. It wasn't uncomfortable or awkward in the least, though I still longed to break it. It wasn't terribly often that I had to force myself to hold my tongue. Especially not when I considered what it was I wanted to say.

I was so fucking proud of him.

It was days like these that gave me hope. That let me hold on to the idea that the Justin I knew was still somewhere underneath the pain we'd both been laden down with for so long. These kind of days let me know that not only were we still fighting, but that there was still something left inside both of us worth fighting for.

~.~

As the weekend wore on, there was a noticeable shift in Justin's mood. He had rated Saturday a 'five' in his therapy log as his overall mood. A fucking _five. _That was better than I ever expected, and probably the first time he'd felt that happy since it had happened. It was definitely the first time I'd liked what I read inside the little log.

Sunday, however, was a different story entirely. It was only about four-thirty in the afternoon when he'd picked up the little book and assigned the date a thick number 'three' in jet black ink. I knew perfectly well what the cause for this was, but there was little I could do to reassure him. Therapy was just something both of us were going to have to get through.

He'd still filled in every available bit of free space with cramped writing describing his nightmares. He'd had a particularly horrible one on Thursday night, and one on Friday had involved his own health-related death. I had woken up to the sound of his muffled sobs, shaken him awake, and held him for a good half an hour while he squeezed me tightly and cried. I hadn't had the heart to ask him to talk about it, so I'd waited until morning to read about it in his little black book.

I knew his mind had been unfortunately focused on his questionable health status, but his terror over what could be had been accentuated by the dream he'd had, of his own declining health and eventual death. It had been a heartbreaking nightmare to read about, especially considering the fact that this type of dream was not part of some residual pain from his past. This was fear over his future.

It wasn't as though the clinic had never taken this long before to contact him, but at such a crucial point, three months...the wait for the results was killing me, as well. It seemed amazingly simple, yet so unreal, that one phone call could change someone's life so profoundly.

I had deduced that much of Ben's Buddha/Zen shit was something he clung to, some philosophy he lived by because it was something solid. It made him feel at peace, even while his world was being spun in a million different directions. Would testing positive change Justin like that? Or would it break him completely? He was like one of those little towers of blocks that Gus liked to build...precariously balanced, every aspect of his existence carefully placed and checked. On his own, he could just continue to exist, building himself up again until he could stand tall once more. With the impact of something that would shake his very foundation, however...he would fall.

It took about ten minutes of mulling over the same depressing facts and fears before I told myself that it was enough. I muttered to Justin, who was watching some lame-ass movie on TV beside me, that I was taking a quick shower, and got up to try and clear my head.

It didn't help.

Under the steam of the shower, the water beating rough patterns into my back, I tried to focus on something else for a while. Something that wasn't Justin's pain or Justin's health or anything depressing. Something that wasn't my life, wasn't so undeniably, inescapably _real. _

But it was. It was my life, _our _lives, and they could not get any more real than this.

What would happen if he _was_ positive? Honestly, what would that mean? I had meant what I'd said to him...that neither of us were going anywhere...but there were so many things that would change if he was diagnosed. Physically...shit. I'd be constantly terrified of something happening to him, just knowing of the potential to self-destruct that lurked inside his body. Was this how Michael felt every day of his life that he spent with Ben?

I wasn't an idiot. I knew full well what Justin and the Professor had been discussing the night before at Deb's. I just hadn't wanted to mention it, bring it all up and force him to face it. Justin, though obviously preoccupied on the ride home, at least had not broken down into tears or dissolved into blinding panic, so whatever the Professor had said to him, I could at least be thankful that he seemed to have been tactful about it.

There was also the matter of sex. Fuck, there was always the concept of it, skulking at the back of my mind. I'd told Justin that, if he tested positive, it would change nothing as far as sex went...if and when it happened again. We would still use condoms, still play it safe, and everything would be okay. That was, like most of the things I'd told him, not a lie, but the most sugar-coated version of the truth I could give him.

But assuming he ever even felt comfortable having sex again...condoms could break. There would always be that risk, and I knew, just like I couldn't quite let go of my paranoia where Justin's safety was concerned...that he wouldn't be able to let of it when it involved me. It was certainly something to think about. If he did actually want to be with me again, I knew I didn't stand a chance, even if I'd wanted to refuse him. The blue eyes, the soft lips, the body I knew more intimately than my own...no way I'd be able to say no to him, I never had. Whatever hazards there were, I couldn't refuse the offer even if it put my health at risk. When it was for him, I could do without. When it was _my_ health on the line...it just wasn't enough. It wouldn't be enough to keep me away from him.

And that was only if he ever wanted to again. When I thought about the way I'd barely done more than kiss Justin for the last three months, considered the months ahead, the possibility that he may never feel comfortable with being touched again...it hurt. It more than hurt. It broke something inside me to think that I would never get to feel him that way again, lips against his skin, bodies moving in a synchronized rhythm long since perfected. But if Justin never wanted to have sex again, that was how it would be. And no matter how much it hurt, tore me apart to think about it...what other alternatives did I have?

The one thing, the only other thing I could do would rip the heart right out of my chest, bloody and beating. Remove him from my life completely. Just get him out, out of the loft, and out from under my skin. But it was no use, and I knew it. He was stuck there, and always would be, whether he was physically here or not. I had told him before that there were no locks on our doors, and I'd meant it. If he truly, honestly wanted to leave, I couldn't keep him here. But he didn't want to leave, because he loved me. Because he needed me. He was bound by his own contract, his own locks. Well, so was I. As it turned out, our supposedly non-existent 'locks' not only survived my bullshit with rebellious durability, but they had proved to be a more effective way of keeping us together than all the meaningless vows in the world. I was here because I wanted to be, and I was doing exactly what I wanted to do.

I was in this. Part of this. And maybe there was nothing saying I had to be, but I knew where I needed to be just as well as he did. I cared about him, needed him, wanted him...I loved him just as much as he loved me. I remembered when Debbie had practically ordered me to open my fucking eyes and see it, a few weeks after Justin had come to live with me after he was bashed. She hadn't been wrong...in fact, she was one of the few people who actually saw through the bullshit I spewed out. I had all but signed a suicide pact when she'd asked me, straight out, if I loved him, and I hadn't answered.

Well, score one for Deb.

So, really, I had no other options. No other alternatives. Maybe it had been like that for longer than I even realized...and maybe he'd known that. From the moment I'd picked up the little blond virgin under the lamppost, there had never been a choice.

He was here. He was staying...we both were. Negative, positive, sex, no sex...even the worst was better than nothing at all. If living on hope got me through when the pain was almost overwhelming, then fine. But if my choices were having part of Justin or none of him at all, I'd take what I could get.

The idea that I would so readily accept the future, as dismal as it could still prove to be, should have terrified me. It should have scared me that I was even thinking weeks and months and maybe years ahead. It should have scared me that every time I pictured it, he was right there beside me.

But honestly, the idea of life without Justin in any way scared me more. It had been a reality I had almost been forced to accept, forced to exist in...and I refused to ever have to consider it as a possibility again. Maybe that was why I could look a month ahead, two months ahead, and still see him here...because I had been so close to the alternative, been forced to dwell on it for so many depressing days and nights, that the idea of ever feeling remotely what I had felt on that rooftop chilled me to the core. They always say to find out what something means to you, you have to lose it. Just like I almost lost him. The parking garage, the roof...I'd do anything to never have to feel that again.

So yeah. It was a very real possibility that I would never be able to do more than kiss Justin. It was also a possibility that I would have to deal with a diagnosis of HIV, everything that went along with that, physically and emotionally. It wasn't a question of _could we deal with that?, _it was a question of _are we __going to have to? _Because when it came down to it, he couldn't escape what was in store for him. And since I couldn't escape _him,_ then I couldn't escape his fate, either. Either one of ours.

Still...there was hope. Sometimes it was all we had, the hint of better times ahead. When I thought about it, he _was _getting more physically comfortable with me. He allowed me to be in the same room as him when he changed clothes. There had been a time, back before I'd even known what was going on, that he would wait until I was in the shower at night before changing into his sweatpants and t-shirts that he wore to bed. He also allowed me, not that I'd given him much choice, to be inside the room when he showered. I was still working on the whole 'give him space' thing, but I was getting better. And he let me kiss him, let me hold him. Things were more...casual. Less timid, less forced. He was comfortable, at least with what we had. That was something. Something to hold onto.

And just as we had the future to hope for, we had the past to remember. I could recall perfectly the way his eyes would cloud over with lust, with need, and whether it was gentle strokes or grasping fingers, he could never keep his hands off me, always needing to touch and feel, even as I returned the favor.

My fingers drifted downward, out of my hair that I was washing clean, down past my stomach, past my hips, and closed around my dick. I shuddered, and remembered the way goosebumps would crawl up his sides when I ran my hands down his skin, across his stomach, bending down to taste him, tease him...feeling him come alive against me....

It was something I missed desperately. More than I thought I would. And it wasn't just that I missed fucking, because I hadn't exactly stopped. It was just that I missed fucking _him. _I missed feeling him,touching him, I missed hearing him cry out my name as I finally gave into his pleads and my desire, pushing inside him, engulfed in his tight heat, pleasure beyond anything either of us could imagine...blond hair and blue eyes and pink lips and pale skin...moans and curses and sighs and gasps of pleasure...heat and fire and desire and passion...and Justin, always Justin, always _him...._

I'd been flirting with the edge with this illusion, or maybe it was a memory, and suddenly, I was over it. I pressed my lips together, muffling a small cry, and allowed myself the temporary release I'd so desperately needed. Just something to get my mind off of...things...and, true to my famous word, what better way than with sex, disappearing just for a moment into a happier time, a lighthearted place in our lives.

Besides, he was out in the living room, I was alone in the shower, and I'd been careful to remain quiet...I could allow myself the pleasure of forgetting everything but the way things used to be, just for a little while. This worked particularly well, because it meant I didn't have to leave him and go out to get the relief I sought. The fantasy would only be the same, anyway.

However, there wasn't only the tactful reason of not wanting him to be uncomfortable that was responsible for me trying to be discreet about this kind of thing. It was also not only about pressuring him, or about letting him know how much he meant to me, that I was actually fantasizing about him on a regular basis. And though any one of those would be a valid reason, it wasn't _completely_ any of them.

It was that it felt wrong.

I hated that. I hated that it made me feel guilty to think about my own boyfriend that way. All the times we had fucked, all the things we'd done together, and it felt wrong to think about him like that. Like I was _them, _like I was no better than his attackers. Of course, that wasn't true, and I _knew _it. It wasn't about what I knew to be true; it was about what I felt. They'd wanted him. And I knew exactly what it was that _made_ them want him, that ignited that spark of desire, because it was the same thing I'd always seen.

Justin was beautiful.

They had known this, seen this...and they'd taken advantage of the fact that he was just a helpless deer amidst a pack of wolves. I knew that the two situations could not be more different. Anyone could see that Justin was beautiful...just because I saw it, and his attackers had seen it, and both of us wanted him...it didn't make us the same. I wasn't them. I was physically incapable of hurting Justin. I would never even consider it, taking what I wanted whether he wanted to give it or not. I'd die before I did something like that to him.

I was only human, however, and remembering the way things used to be, just those private little pockets of memories of the two of us...it reminded me why we were fighting. Why we were trying so hard to survive. We were fighting for our happiness. There was nothing wrong about remembering the good times with someone who was what Justin was to me...it just bothered me more than it truly warranted that I was standing here fantasizing about him while sex was the very thing that had him hurting so badly in the first place.

Trying to shake off the persistent sensation of guilt, I stepped from the shower and began to dry off, wrapping a towel around my waist. I could still hear the faint sound of the TV from the living room, same as when I'd left him...it even sounded like the same movie.

I had just decided that I would finish up in the bathroom before going out and checking on him, even against my better, more paranoid judgment, when there was a sharp rapping at the door, and then it swung open. I was hit with a blast of uncomfortably cool air, mixing with the steamy warmth from the shower, but my eyes locked immediately on the blond in the doorway.

"Brian..." he said, almost breathless. His eyes flicked downward, at my towel clad lower half, before he forced them back up to my face, swallowing thickly. As much as I'd like to hope that it was due to flushed excitement and interest in what the towel hid, I knew it wasn't. He shifted back toward the door, just a bit, barely enough to be noticeable, and seemed to be second-guessing his decision to come and tell me whatever it was that couldn't wait.

"Um, I...sorry—"

"What is it?" I asked gently, interrupting his discomforted stammering and trying to shift the towel around me. As little as four months ago, he would have been all over me, whatever he'd been planning to say completely forgotten. The towel would have been off, the shower back on...but everything was different these days. We lived in a different time, a different era...nothing was like it used to be.

"Um, I got a call..." he said, staring at a point about six inches to my left.

"You got a..." but suddenly I understood. The only call, the only thing that would have caused him to venture in here to break whatever news he had to me. The only thing important enough. Because suddenly, nothing else was important at all. Nothing but him. "And? What did they say?"

I was trying to read his face, his eyes. They were quite dry, and surely if he'd tested positive, that wouldn't be the case, right? But he wasn't smiling, either....

"I'm okay."

I swear I could have laughed in relief. His words seemed to echo in my ear..._okay, okay, okay...._

He was okay. He was fine. Healthy and fine and mine. Christ, I needed to sit down. "That's..." I struggled to find the right word.

He nodded. "I know." And finally, there it was. He was smiling. Not exactly a full-wattage Sunshine smile, but it was more like fire than a flame.

"So...you're completely all right?" I asked, just to make sure. "I mean, for now? You've got the six-month tests, and then...?"

"Then I'm in the clear," he assured me, his smile widening just a bit. "That's really great, isn't it?"

"It...it really is, Justin." Maybe it was those post-exposure meds of his I'd seen. Or maybe no one at that party actually _had_ it. Or maybe it was just sheer luck on his part. Whatever it was, I wasn't complaining...this was beyond great. This was amazing.

I moved forward, forgetting the fact that I was nearly naked and wearing only a towel, intending on a celebratory kiss.

He jolted back into the door so fast it looked as though he'd been shocked. "Um...I'm going to go call Daphne, tell her I'm okay..." he said, avoiding looking at me at all costs. "She was wondering...she said to tell her when they called me."

And then he was gone.

Fuck. I had to watch out for things like that. A little bit of comfort didn't mean everything was okay again. We had to take this step by step...there was no skipping ahead.

Quickly, I pulled on my clothes and joined him in the living room. I waited while he finished his conversation with Daphne, trying to bite back a smile. But I couldn't _not _smile. I couldn't not be happy, not right now. Not when he was okay. Not when life itself was one step closer to being the way it used to be. Being right again.

"Hey," he said softly after he and Daphne said their goodbyes, clicking off the phone and turning his attention to me instead.

"Hey," I repeated. "Come here."

He was in my arms in an instant, his hair tickling my cheek, his breath warm against my neck. I hugged him back with everything I had, probably squeezing the air from his lungs, but he didn't say anything, so I didn't let go. We sat there for a while, my fingers threading themselves through silken blond, his own fingers tracing patterns into my shoulder.

"I'm so fucking glad, Justin," I whispered. 'Glad' did not even begin to describe the overwhelming sensation of relief I felt right then. There were no words for what I wanted to tell him. That I was proud of him, that I was relieved, that I was becoming increasingly sure that things were going to be okay. Even 'I love you' didn't seem to fit just right. So I just hugged him and held him and let myself enjoy the feeling of him in my arms. Just because I had proved to myself and him that I could say the things he needed to hear...sometimes words just weren't enough. Sometimes they destroyed more than they helped. Sometimes, just the knowledge that someone else was feeling the exact same thing at the exact same moment at the exact same magnitude...was everything you needed.

"I was so fucking scared." His voice was choked; he sounded like he was going to cry. I restrained my sudden urge to beg him not to do it. But at the same time, I could understand that he'd been terrified. I had been, too, after all. Whatever I'd said to him, whatever reassurances I'd made, I'd been scared shitless. Hell, I'd been scared shitless for so long and about so many things that it seemed to be an almost permanent state of mind these days.

But for now, that didn't matter. All that mattered was that he was okay, that life itself was just a little more okay than before. Just for this weekend, just for today, just for this moment...we were all right.

Maybe the things we both wanted most were just things we were never going to get back. Maybe we would be waiting forever for things to return to the way they were. Maybe we were just going to have to face it.

But the fact remained that I _would _wait forever. I didn't know if life would ever really let us breathe again, ever truly take a deep breath, but as long as it continued to let us come up for air, we could and would survive. Forever was a fucking long time to wait, but this..._us..._whatever we had, whatever he gave me, whatever I shared with him, whether it was all we had before or never anything more than this...it was worth it.

He was worth everything.


	21. Choice

**A/N: Sooo sorry it took forever. I had some issues with this chapter, but they're all straightened out now. I promise I'll try to get the next chapter up quicker. It's actually about a third of the way done, so I hope it'll be up soon. :)**

**~. Justin .~**

I still couldn't fucking believe it...it was almost too good to even be trusted. I was okay. I was negative. Healthy. I wasn't sure how it had happened, how I could possibly be so lucky, but I refused to question it too much. I would never forget the sound of that voice on the other end of the line, the woman at the clinic telling me I was fine._ ....You tested HIV negative.... _I had almost dropped the phone.

Brian and I just sat together on the couch for a while, letting the weight of the weekend crash over us. I inhaled the fresh scent of his soap and shampoo, letting sheer relief overpower me, going practically limp in his arms. He seemed even more relieved than I was, if that was possible. He just held me for a while, crushed against his chest, his breath tickling my ear every time he exhaled.

"Hey," he whispered after a while, pulling back to look at me. A small smile was playing around his lips, his stunning hazel eyes twinkling with something that looked a lot like real happiness. Fuck, was that what this was? Was this actually what it felt like? "How about a little celebration?"

I raised an eyebrow in skeptical surprise. "What kind of celebration?" He smiled that soft kind of smile of his, the one that told me something sweet and understated and just a little un-Brian but all _Brian-and-Justin _was about to follow. He slid of the couch, and, undeniably intrigued, I followed him out into the kitchen.

"Debbie sent home some dessert," he reminded me, pulling open the fridge and indicating the plastic container with the slices blueberry pie. She had also sent home about a zillion pounds of meatloaf and a container of mashed potatoes, and this was in addition to the two tons of food she'd sent over with Michael just days before.

"It's after seven," I warned him. He didn't seem to hear me, and merely went about preparing our 'celebration' dessert, pulling a couple of plates down from the cabinet.

"I'll get us something to drink," I offered, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge. He used to have all kinds of alcoholic beverages around the loft. We used to drink them together, have a bottle with dinner, or just finish them off on the nights we stayed in. As I remembered, there was nothing quite like the taste of alcohol and Brian Kinney mingling together on your lips.

He didn't keep the bottles of Jim Beam or Vodka or anything else too strong around the loft anymore. Maybe he thought it would be too tempting for me to try to drown my problems away within them, or maybe he was afraid I'd attempt suicide by alcohol poisoning or something. Whatever the reason was, he only ever kept a few beers in the loft these days...just enough for us to get a pleasant sort of buzz off of them.

"Beer and pie," he said, grinning at me and shoveling a slender piece of pie onto his plate. "Living up the life of luxury."

"I think we deserve it," I said, setting the two cans down on the table.

"I think you're right." He slid into the chair across from mine, setting a ridiculously large piece of pie in front of me.

"I can't eat all this." I had accepted the fact that Brian had become my nutritionist of sorts these last few months, always making sure I was taking good care of myself, but this was pushing it.

"Who says it's all for you?" He teased, reaching his fork across the narrow strip of space separating us and stabbing a piece of pie before popping it into his mouth.

"Oh, so instead of actually getting yourself a decent-sized piece, you eat half of mine," I chuckled. Actually, that was very like him. Back when we used to occasionally go out to eat, he'd always order a meager little salad, make fun of me for ordering the steak, then eat half of it when it arrived.

"I didn't realize sharing was such a problem for you," he mocked me good-naturedly, rubbing it in my face by spearing another piece of my pie onto his fork. I batted it away with my own, but the moment I had it in my mouth, he took advantage and stole another bite of pie from my plate.

We ate in a fairly comfortable, relief-induced haze for a while, teasing and joking, while he continued to eat a good fraction of my admittedly over-sized slice of pie. Sometimes, I forgot how good it felt to laugh and smile. I wondered if it was possible for someone to actually forget how to do it, if they went long enough without it. Probably not. A real smile was too natural, too pure to be something you could learn and forget. Besides, if I ever did forget how it was done, Brian would be around to remind me.

Eventually, though, the mood began to wear off, tiny shards of reality breaking through the haze. It wasn't like I'd really forgotten, I'd just been momentarily absorbed in the almost blissful atmosphere inside the loft, for once. I hadn't forgotten—_couldn't _forget—that there was still a good three months to go until I could be certain of my safety. I still had an appointment with Kathy in less than twelve hours. And though right now it felt like, for once, things might have been starting to turn in my favor...I knew that feeling was only temporary. It wouldn't last forever—probably not even for very long.

"Seriously though, Justin," Brian said, once we had finished our little celebration and he'd gotten up to take our plates over to the sink. Even with his back to me, I could hear the deep breath he let out between his lips. "I'm so fucking glad you're okay."

I nodded, though he couldn't see me. "Me too." Fuck, I was so unbelievably relieved. It may not be over yet, but we were just that much closer. That much safer.

"You know...." He took another deep breath, and let it out, concentrating very hard on scrubbing his plate free of pie. I slid a little closer to hear him over the rush of the faucet, but he refused to look at me. Whatever it was he was trying to say, it was obviously important, but either the words didn't want to come out, or he just wasn't sure how to say them.

When he spoke, it was quiet and deliberate. "I meant what I said, though...everything I said."

I just looked at him for a moment, my eyes locked onto him even as he continued to avoid my gaze. He'd meant what he said. He'd meant it when he told me he'd stay with me either way. Those types of admissions were almost more monumental than _I love you _from Brian Kinney...he was actually acknowledging a _future _together.

Once again, the realization seemed to hit me that this...this was not the same Brian Kinney. It had been occurring to me more and more often, as of late. This could not possibly be the same person I'd known before all this had happened. Here he was, basically telling me he loved me...that he would have stayed with me no matter what the outcome. He cared about me that much.

I wanted to tell him how much this meant to me. I wanted to tell him I loved him more than anything, more than I could even describe, but the thing was...he was still Brian. I knew that, and I wouldn't have it any other way. No matter what had changed between us, or what changes had occurred within him...actions still meant more to him than all the words in the English dictionary. It was how it always had been, and how it always would be.

So I decided to speak his language for a while. Show him, in the best way I could, exactly how much it meant that he would have done that for me, that he _was _doing all this for me. It wasn't much that I could give him, but I knew he'd appreciate it for what it was.

I reached past him to shut off the faucet; he turned to me in questioning surprise, his dripping fingers fumbling for the towel on the counter.

Sometimes, I wondered if they had just broken me. If Gary in the others had just sapped me of any happiness I had or would ever possess, thriving on my misery and pain until it was all that existed. They'd stolen so much, and left this _thing _behind, something dirty and disgusting, something obscene.

But then—at the opposite end of everything—there was Brian. The pain always with me, the filthy sensation of shame always lurking beneath my skin...it faded, lessened when I was around him. He held me, kissed me or touched me...and I didn't feel so much like screaming. He was like the antidote to the poison that lived inside my veins. The one to light my way in all this darkness. The one who saved me, brought me back.

I leaned up to kiss him, just needing to taste him, touch him, and suddenly it wasn't even really a question. There was no hesitation, no panic or second-thoughts. Just him. And God, he tasted good. Sometimes I thought I lived for moments like these, just feeling his tongue caressing mine, his unique flavor sending sparks throughout my body, so warm and familiar.

But this time, I wanted more. Easy, gentle...but passionate as I poured all the feelings, all the relief and gratefulness and love I felt for him into my actions. My fingers curled around the back of his neck, in his hair. It wasn't quite like the messy, wet kisses we used to share, but it was more than we'd had in a very long while. He still tasted just as I remembered, and I was glad nothing had changed in that respect. I loved his kisses. I loved even more that they were just for me. I was the only one who got this most intimate part of him, even if it was all I really had right now.

His arm was around my waist, the other at the back of my head, fisted lightly in my hair. I held on tight, hands anywhere and everywhere I could grasp, just...losing myself, really. I hadn't done that with him in a long time, but right now, there was just me and him and tongue in my mouth, probing and sliding and tasting...heat and passion and it just felt so damn _good, _so real. Celebratory. Desperate. Both of us needing just to prove that we were here, together—that there was finally the hint of a light at the end of this tunnel of darkness we'd been stranded in for so long. Lost inside the sensations we knew so well. So incredible, so intense, just so....

Suddenly, I backed away. Just pushed away from him, pressing myself back into the counter. I might have made a noise of protest, or maybe of apology, but I couldn't be sure. My throat suddenly felt dry.

"Justin..."

I squeezed my eyes shut, running a hand over my face. I hated doing that. It was so painful and uncomfortable, breaking off our kisses. But sometimes I didn't have the choice. It was just too much, and I couldn't breathe, but I could remember all those things I never wanted to remember...I didn't want to go back....

"Justin!" his voice was sharper this time, a note of panic clearly audible in his tone.

"I'm fine," I forced myself to speak, biting back a feral groan of frustration. "Fuck." Okay, maybe 'fine' was a bit of a white lie. _Breathe breathe breathe..._I urged myself. I refused to go back there. I refused to feel them, taste them, remember them. It wasn't happening now.

I didn't realize I still had my eyes squeezed shut, my hands pulling at my own hair, until I felt Brian's fingers gently loosening my grip. "Justin, it's okay..."

I sure as hell did not authorize the pathetic little whimper to escape my throat, but it did anyway, and suddenly Brian's arms were drawing me into him. I dropped my head onto his chest, allowing him to pull me firmly back into reality. I knew he could sense the potential of an impending meltdown, and I was determined not to give him reason to worry, keeping my eyes shut tight against the tears I could feel building behind them.

"I'm okay," I told him. "I'm fine." Fuck. _Fuck. _That had been so—_damn it_ that had been so amazing. So wonderful to finally feel alive that way. To feel his body against mine like that, tongues and lips and hands, and of course it was too perfect a moment to last. I'd _wanted _it, actually wanted him, and then my own mind had gone and betrayed me.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. I could still feel his hands rubbing circles into my back. "You are."

"I'm sorry," I said once I had my tears firmly under my own authority. "Fuck, I was just...I don't know...."

"It's okay," he said again. I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him no, it was not okay. Not this time. I'd been so close to just...losing myself completely. Forgetting this life for just a little while and giving myself to him, even if it was just kissing.

Then again, it wasn't 'just kissing.' That was...that was _us. _That was the way it used to be, the way he used to make me feel. The sensation that nothing in the world could touch me, that invincible high...that was what it was. And I'd wanted more of it.

"Let's just...go to bed, okay?" he suggested. "We've got a busy day tomorrow."

Of course. with Kathy, once again.

"Yeah," I agreed, with a considerable lack of enthusiasm. I watched from the counter while he quickly finished up with the dishes, then followed him up the steps into the bedroom. He slipped into the bathroom, and I collapsed on the bed.

I could feel my frustration ebbing, to be replaced with something I couldn't quite identify. Joy? Curiosity? Something in between? I hadn't kissed Brian like that since _it _had happened...so passionate, so needy and desperate—like we used to be for each other. But the fact that I had done it, that I'd _enjoyed _it, that I'd been able to let the world fall away and just concentrate on him...that had to be a good sign, right? Did that mean I was ready to start trying for more? Maybe it meant that some tiny part of me that I had lost was coming back? Maybe the part of me that belonged to Brian really wasn't gone forever.

Quickly, while he was busy in the adjoining room, I snatched my little black therapy log from the bedside table where it was kept. I'd awarded the day a resolute _three _in the upper right hand corner, a little way above the several lines of writing describing the nightmare I'd woken up to the night before. However, all things considered, I thought the day deserved a bit more credit. The phone call, the kiss...I scratched out the number _three _and replaced it with a new and improved _four _instead. It had actually been a considerably progressive weekend. There was no question in my mind that it would all change tomorrow, but even one or two good days were a blessing to be grateful for.

I set aside the log just as Brian returned to the room, settling down beneath the blankets and scooting as close to the edge of my pillow as possible, over to his side of the bed. He didn't hesitate to drape an arm around my waist, so that my back fit snugly against his chest, and his fingers slipped just underneath my shirt, lightly stroking the skin of my stomach and sides. It always relaxed me, to be able to fall asleep like this, connected to him.

My eyes were closed, my mind hovering somewhere between the material world and the realm of dreams, when I heard him whisper into the dark.

"Justin..." I felt the huff of breath against my ear. Somehow, that one word spoke volumes more than all the love sonnets ever written. Just because Brian Kinney believed in actions rather than words didn't mean he couldn't speak both languages. That was something else that had been altered by this whole experience; he was more open to meeting me in the middle with these kinds of things. We had each learned a new way of expressing ourselves to each other.

"I know," I whispered back. He didn't need to say it. Not right now.

He didn't need to say what he told me better with silence.

~.~

It was my least favorite time of the week, during my least favorite time of the day. Monday. My hour of therapeutic hell.

Once again, Brian and I sat together on the little reddish-brown sofa in Kathy's office. A pile of tissues had been steadily accumulating next to me for the last forty-five minutes, and I was pretty sure I might make it through the rest of the box before the session was over.

Things had actually started off okay. My spirits had been unusually high when we'd strode into the office that day, and I'd happily explained to Kathy the cause for my uncommon emotional state. When I'd told her about my test results coming back clear, she seemed genuinely happy and relieved herself, and hadn't hesitated to tell me so. I'd also told her about the dinner on Saturday, which she seemed even more pleased about, calling it progress, and 'a stride in the right direction.'

Then came the cruel reminder that we weren't just there to discuss the good things. We were there to tear open my mind and force me to consider the bad, too. It hadn't taken long for Kathy to get on her chosen topics of discussion for the day.

"How have you been doing with your log?" Kathy asked. I shrugged. What answer did she want? I was doing everything I was supposed to, if that was what she was asking. "Okay, well what would you say the general area of your moods are most days, from one to ten?"

I cleared my throat. "Well...this last Saturday was a five," I offered feebly.

She smiled. "That's great. That's definitely progress, Justin." I didn't say anything, but I felt Brian's ever-present grip on my hand tighten momentarily. He did that sometimes during our sessions. Either when I was particularly upset, or when he was especially proud of what I had to say.

"Saturday was the day you attended dinner with your friends?"

"Yeah."

She nodded. "Okay, okay. Do you have any plans to see them again soon?"

"I think...we're going back this weekend," I said, glancing at Brian, who shook his head in affirmation.

"Good," Kathy said encouragingly. "It's important that you try to spend time with your friends and family. I realize it can be difficult, but it's good to have that support."

I nodded. I had all the support I could ask for. I had Daphne, my mother, my entire group of friends...most importantly of all, I had the man sitting next to me. Somehow—and I wasn't entirely sure where along the line this had happened—he had stopped thinking of me as the annoying trick who wouldn't give up, or the dreamy little twink who thought he was in love. Instead, I'd become someone Brian actually cared about, actually wanted, actually _loved._ It had somehow gone from him telling me that he didn't even believe in such a ridiculous emotion, to him almost literally shouting it from the rooftops. And the most torturous, bittersweet thing about that was the knowledge of how it had come to be.

He'd always had it in him to care about someone, really love them. I'd always known that, always seen it in a way most people didn't. He'd come to care about me those first few months I'd known him, stopped trying so hard to push me away, and even accepted my presence in his life.

And then the bashing had happened, and changed everything—our individual states of mind for the worse, and eventually, our relationship for the better, once I'd stopped being such a pathetic mess. We became closer. _Partners. _We lived together, we shopped together, we went out together, we slept together and ate together and did basically everything with each other. And it sucked because both of us were still reeling over the bashing, but it was also so much better to wake up in his bed after a nightmare and be taken into his arms than to wake up alone in that hospital room, wondering where he was and what he was doing and why he hadn't come to see me.

The bashing had been it. It had been what turned us from Brian and Justin into _Brian-and-Justin. _We were a couple—maybe not in the conventional sense, but that was what we were, regardless. And we'd been getting along just fine.

And then there came _this. _There came_ It. _This ugly disturbance in both our lives, tearing us apart and destroying all the love and trust and togetherness we had built up over the last few months. Lies and secrets and shame and fear. Ripping us further and further apart...until my secret was discovered and I couldn't hide any longer. I was in pain and he couldn't stand it, he was in pain and _I _couldn't stand it, and the already unendurable agony only ever intensified between the two of us. We were both falling apart—falling _together—_but falling to pieces.

Then once again, something changed. Maybe it had been a gradual thing, or maybe there had been a single moment to define it all. Maybe it had been a long time coming, and_ It _had only helped get us there. And it wasn't the words he'd said, it wasn't that he'd finally told me what I'd always known to be true...it was that he _showed _me. Through all of this, every second, he had proved to me just how much he cared. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd never said the words—he'd fucking screamed it at me when he'd said he wasn't making me leave despite what happened, when he'd said he would stay with me no matter what my health status turned out to be, whenever he cried with me and held me and whispered that it was all going to be okay. It was an unavoidable truth.

Brian loved me.

This hell we had been forced into, this daily dose of emotional torture, had pushed us and twisted us and shaped us into people I hadn't even known we could be. If I'd ever thought I loved Brian Kinney, it was nothing to how I felt about him now. These things in our lives, the bashing, that party...they had pushed us together in a way I was sure we'd never find our way out of. And I never wanted to. Because I loved him back.

"Back to the log..." Kathy switched topics effortlessly. I blinked, suddenly remembering that she was still talking. I resisted the urge to glance at the clock to check how many minutes were left of this session, how many seconds more she had left to rip my mind open, leaving me raw, exposed. I hated it, but I had to admit that there was something about having Brian and Kathy know what was going on inside my head—something about not feeling so _alone_ in it all—that I was truly grateful for. I wasn't so isolated with and by my pain.

"How have your nightmares been lately, Justin?"

I felt my stomach contract, my cautiously optimistic mood dissipating instantly. I pressed myself a little closer to Brian's side. "Um..."

"Are you still having them every night?" she asked softly.

"Most nights," I admitted. "Sometimes...more than once."

"Are all of them about your rapists?"

Her voice was quite gentle, though I nearly cringed at the word. _Rapists._ I still didn't like to hear it. Still didn't like to say it. _Rape._ It was such an ugly word, with such an ugly meaning. People tried to make sense of things by giving them names, like it made it less terrifying or less horrible if it only had a label in your mind. But it didn't. It made it worse. When it was just some unidentified, abstract agony, you could push it away. You could avoid it, avoid facing it and dealing with it. When it had a name, when you knew all the connotations that came along with it, when it sat in your mind and whispered horrible things to you, things like _it happened, it was real, you know what it was..._there was no avoiding it. No escaping it.

I was everything that label meant. I had been through all of it, though sometimes, even now, it still just didn't compute. It didn't make sense to me that something so vile, so terrible, could possibly have a word to even describe it. It was too much to define, to contain within a language. Because it didn't just mean the obvious.

It meant hate. They all had to have hated me, to have deliberately inflicted this type of pain. That was the only possible conclusion. And I couldn't help but return the sentiment.

It meant guilt. Not for them, of course. Never for them. But for me. It meant shame and self-loathing every time I so much as looked in a mirror with the knowledge of what had happened. What I had let happen.

It meant weakness. I'd been too weak to get away, to save myself...and now I was too weak to fight my way out of this alone.

It meant fear. It meant you were lost, alone. It meant a living hell inside your own head.

And it meant pain, all-consuming agony...so deep and profound that it became an integrated part of life. It meant sleepless nights and tears and frustration, it meant the loss of everything you'd ever kept for yourself, everything you were.

_That _was what the word meant.

But that was what had happened to me. Everything I had been through, everything I was still going through—it all stemmed from that one word. That one defined experience. My suffering had a name, and the least I could do was admit it inside my own head. There was no pushing it away, no pretending it hadn't happen, because it had. I had been raped. I was a rape victim—or maybe a survivor—but either way, I had been through it, whether I had the balls to say the word or not. I'd tried my best in the beginning to forget it, to ignore it, to tell myself it hadn't been like that, hadn't been _that word, _because things like that just did not happen. Or when they did, they happened to strangers on the news. They didn't happen to me. But they did.

It _did. _

"Justin?" Kathy prompted me when my tongue refused to answer her. So maybe I could admit that talking about what had happened was for the best. That didn't mean it was easy, or even that I wanted to. Maybe I couldn't forget it, but that didn't mean I wanted to drag up all the horrible things that haunted my mind and force them out of my mouth.

"Most...most of them," I said quietly. "Sometimes, this last week...I've had a few about...about testing positive."

Fucking horrible nightmares they were, too, so of course Kathy wanted me to explain them to her. Compared to some of my other dreams, they could really be considered quite tame...no homophobic pricks with bats, no terrifying men trying to tie me up. But it had scared me because of the potential within it, the potential within me, to actually have the disease lurking beneath my skin. My fingers clenched around Brian's, and I dropped my gaze to my knees as I tried to recall my subconscious horrors.

There had been the one that had me awake and screaming at three AM on Friday. I'd been at my own funeral, apparently in some kind of metaphysical spirit form, because it had quickly become clear that no one could see or hear me. It had felt so real, that subconscious hell. I had literally been screaming in their faces, pleading with them to just look at me, begging them to see that I was _right there, _but then it dawned on me that I wasn't. I was somewhere else, not connected to the physical world.

And then I heard them, Brian and my mother, talking over by what could only be my coffin. Talking about my diagnosis, the rapid deterioration of my health, and my death that had brought everyone here in the first place. There were tears streaking down their faces; that had been the worst part. Seeing them, my friends and family—the people I loved—so miserable as they cried over me. Seeing that haunted, empty look in Brian's eyes that I'd only ever seen when he was talking about the bashing or the party. I'd wanted so badly just to wrap my arms around him, but it was like I'd been trapped behind some invisible curtain preventing me from reaching out, both of us suffering on separate sides of everything, just not quite connecting.

If those types of nightmares hadn't only been occurring for about a week, and if I actually believed most of all that dream-decoding shit, I might have wondered about the accuracy of my apparent subconscious fears. It was almost like a metaphor, a physical—if only invisible—barrier keeping us apart, whereas we'd been separating by our own lack of communication so many times before. But we had broken through that. We'd gotten around it that night I'd made the decision to open up to him, and he had responded by just opening his arms and letting me in.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat, forcing myself to glance up at Kathy, who was scribbling something on her clipboard. "And have those dreams stopped now that you've learned of your test results?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I've only known a day. But I didn't have any dreams about it last night."

"Okay, okay. Good," she made another note on her clipboard, then looked up at me, fixing me with a serious look that told me immediately that this was going to be an important conversation.

"Justin, I don't think we've talked about this before..." she began. "But I wondered how you might feel about me prescribing some sleep medication for you? I know you said you've taken over-the-counter medicine, but these would be actual prescription drugs. I think they would help you a lot."

It took me a moment for the full implications of this to actually sink in. I could sleep? Really_ sleep?_ No dreams, no waking up screaming, no sick sensation of blinding terror making me want to vomit?

"Sleep meds?" I repeated weakly. "It'll really...the medicine will make me stop having nightmares?" I asked, unable to keep the bubble of hope from rising in my voice. It really didn't occur to a person how valuable a good nights' sleep was until you didn't have them anymore.

"Basically, yes," she answered. "If you take one about a half-hour to an hour before you go to bed, they should help you fall asleep, and prevent you from waking up during the night. And..." she added when I opened my mouth again. "Most people who've taken them have reported dreamless sleep while they're on them."

"I want them," I said immediately.

She made another swift note on her clipboard. "Then we will arrange it."

**~Brian~**

I sat and listened, making mental notes and storing away potentially important information, as Kathy discussed sleep medication with Justin...the type of meds she was prescribing, the potential risk for addiction...everything we'd need to know. I could tell just how grateful he was to her for this, and I would admit, I was too. I knew it was just part of her job to make sure her patients got what they needed, but Christ, after all these months...he was finally at least going to be able to find peace in his sleep, something he hadn't been able to truly do since the bashing. I couldn't count the number of times he had woken up screaming in the middle of the night, sobbing and shaking in my arms until he fell back asleep. His nightmares were a raw form of fear, of pain...and that was exactly what they reduced him to every time.

"Also, Justin," Kathy continued. "I'd like to talk to you about antidepressants." My gaze snapped to her.

"Even a short-term prescription could be beneficial," she informed him gently. "The medication helps with depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts..."

Everything he was suffering from. I looked at him questioningly, but he was frowning.

"I don't want to walk around high on happy pills all the time," he said distastefully.

Kathy didn't seemed phased in the least by the bitterness in his tone. "That's not what they are, Justin, or what they do. They just help you deal with day-to-day life." She seemed to hesitate, "Are you still having suicidal thoughts?"

I did not want to hear this. I did not want to hear, again, him describing the pain he felt, how he wanted to die, how he wanted to end it all because it was better than being alive and hurting so much. _Please don't make me hear it...._

His stormy blue eyes were a million miles away as he answered. "I'm...not really," he said quietly. "I mean, I don't know." I frowned in confusion, but my heart was pounding in my ears. _I don't know? _What was that? Was that supposed to be a good thing or not?

Kathy frowned too, but nodded. "What kind of feelings would you say you're having, then, Justin?" she asked patiently.

"I don't...know. I mean, I...I meant what I said before," Justin muttered. "You can...you can trust me." He practically whispered this last part, and I knew the words were directed at only one of us. He had promised me that. He had given me his word that I could trust him with his own life.

With a quick glance at me, Kathy seemed to realize there was something she had missed. "What do you mean by that, exactly?"

He shook his head, obviously doing some deep thinking, and he took his time to answer.

"I don't—want to die," he said, his voice breaking on the last word, even as he clearly struggled to keep it firm and even. "I never really did, I just...wanted to stop feeling like this. And I still do," he said honestly, letting out a shaky sigh. "But not like that. I was—stupid, for trying it."

Kathy was nodding approvingly. "It's good that you're starting to realize that there are other ways to deal with your pain," she said matter-of-factly. "I know you said that you'd been feeling suicidal for a while before you actually attempted it, but that doesn't mean that the decision you made that night wasn't somewhat impulsive...from what you've told me, you almost immediately regretted your choice that night." She surveyed him carefully. "And for the record, I believe you one-hundred percent when you say that you don't want to die, Justin."

Christ. I wanted to believe that, too...that for whatever reason, whatever he had found inside himself, it was enough to give him that most basic part of himself back—his will to live.

But she believed it. She believed _him. _Could I?

"However, I think you're still looking for a way out of your pain," continued Kathy. I dragged my attention back to the moment, forcing myself to listen, to take this all in. "We don't just want to remove the option of suicide...we want to remove the reason you considered it an option in the first place."

Remove the reason for the old cure, replace it with the reasons for the alternative. That was essentially what we were doing: giving him the reasons. Taking him back to a place where he could find the strength to save himself. And somewhere inside I knew that, whatever we still had ahead of us, he_ was _fighting. He was giving everything he had to get to that place.

And that in itself meant he was already halfway there.

~.~

As usual, we didn't talk much on the way home. There were things I wanted to tell him, things I wanted to ask him, but I figured he'd been through enough in the last hour, without me forcing more out of him. Space. I had to give him his space, let him wind down from the raw intensity the last hour had brought him into.

However, that didn't mean that some things weren't necessary to say. Sometimes it was better that he hear the words. I had never understood it, but Justin was someone who needed them, who needed to hear things verbalized to really _know. _With him, things were easier. I knew when he was upset, or angry, or happy, or whatever. He couldn't hide it. But sometimes I didn't realize just how far I sank inside my own thoughts. Justin wasn't a mind-reader; if I was nervous and distressed or just proud and relieved, he needed to hear me say it.

We pulled up at a stop light, and I took the opportunity to glance over at him. As usual, his forehead was against the window, his pale blond reflection visible in the glass. "Justin?"

He opened his eyes, looking over at me.

"What you said..." I sighed, racking my brain for the right words. How could I make him see that I _knew _he'd meant what he said, that I _did _believe his promises? How could I make him see that it was just because I cared so much about him that I insisted on his constant physical and emotional protection? "It's not—it's not a trust thing, Justin. I...I do trust you," I said honestly. I really did. I'd trust him with my life in a heartbeat...just not always his own. "I just...you scare me, sometimes," I admitted.

He nodded a little, but didn't say anything, just staring at the glove box. I tried again.

"I just want you safe," I told him. My mind flashed momentarily to a different day, a different setting, telling him that exact same thing. When he'd wanted me to fuck him raw. That had scared the shit out of me. Of course, I never would have done it, but there was always the possibility that someday, with someone else....

I wanted—needed—him safe. He had no idea how much the idea of him in pain killed me. The idea of him hurting so much, inside or outside or anywhere at all...it was worse than any type of pain I could feel on my own. I never would have guessed it could be this way. What hurt him, hurt me, and it hurt in a way I'd never been able to imagine before him. I _needed _him to be okay, for both our sakes. And as long as I was around, I was going to make damn well sure that it happened.

"That's just how it is. And I'm going to protect you," He didn't answer, but I hoped what I was saying was sinking in anyway. Even if he didn't want it, even if he was a moment away from giving up everything...I would never give up on him. I would never step aside and let him be swallowed up by darkness, as long as I had one ounce of strength left within me to continue fighting. Fighting for him. Fighting for—us, I supposed.

"But for the record," I said quietly, pressing my foot to the accelerator as the light changed to green. "I believe you, too."

"About what?" he spoke up, his voice so low I could barely hear him over the hum of the jeep.

"That you don't...want to die," I explained, letting out a heavy breath. "I know you don't. That's not you. You're just...trying to deal with a hell of a lot of shit you don't deserve."

Could I blame him? I had at first, it was true. I'd been so fucking furious at him for what he'd tried to do to himself, do to me. But after hearing everything he'd gone through, after witnessing firsthand the pain he carried around with him every day...no, I couldn't blame him for trying to find a way out. I hated that he'd tried it, but I couldn't hate _him. _I couldn't blame him for it, because the fact remained, as it always had, that none of this was his fault. It just couldn't be.

He was quiet for a long time. This wasn't terribly unusual just after therapy, but it wasn't altogether comfortable, either. We were about a block away from the loft when he spoke again.

"You know what Ben said?" he asked softly. "The other night at Deb's?"

"What did he say?" I asked, honestly a bit curious. Whatever it was, it seemed to have held him together a little better than I'd been able to at that point. Which made perfect sense. Ben could tell him things that I couldn't...and while I understood Justin's fear, shared it, maybe even surpassed it with my own...it wasn't the type of understanding that Ben could give him. Not about that.

"He said...that you have to just...hang on, until you can see the good things in your life again," Justin said slowly. "He said it's like waiting for—a cloud to move past the sun or something. It feels like you'll always be waiting, but when it finally happens, you remember why it's worth it."

"Sounds like the kind of Zen shit he'd come up with."

There was the smallest whisper of laughter. "He's right, though," Justin mused thoughtfully. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him brush a single tear from his cheek. "I don't want to—I don't want to give up everything," he said decisively, though his voice was choked and raspy.

"You won't," I told him. He'd never lose everything. I wouldn't let him.

~.~

"Come here," I told him the second we were back inside the loft. He had just slipped his shoes off and was tugging at the sleeves of his jacket, but turned around to face me. I just looked at him for a moment, really looked for the first time since leaving Kathy's office, drinking in the sight of him. His eyes were still a little red from crying, but the captivating sapphires were as piercing as ever.

I felt truly horrible for making him go through this once a week, but remained convinced that it was for the best. I knew he wouldn't be doing it if it weren't for me, but I had to be the strong one, the one he could lean on. Then again, he had proved himself as being just as strong as I was, even more so. You would never know by looking at him, so small and sweet and fragile, that he was strong as steel. Bendable, but never breakable. He hadn't been broken, he hadn't lost.

He shifted under my intense scrutiny, obviously uncomfortable. I knew I should say something, he was waiting...but I just couldn't put my finger on what it was I was looking for. Anything different, I supposed. It wasn't anything physical, nothing he had deliberately and consciously altered. But then, what? His eyes, maybe? They were the same shade of purest blue they'd always been, but there was something new within them today. Or maybe it was the absence of something...that dull, deadened look I'd become so reluctantly accustomed to seeing. Today, they had something akin to a spark in them. They looked _alive..._sapphire flames...and I was the moth too weak to resist. I reached out a hand to touch the smooth, silken skin of his neck, pulling him toward me, my lips finding his automatically. It was a simple kiss, rather chaste and nothing like the fiery one we'd shared the night before, but he kissed back without hesitation.

"What was that for?" he asked when we broke apart, and I was pleased to see that the spark had not disappeared. I silently hoped that it never would. It was part of what made him shine so brightly.

"Felt like it," I said simply. He graced me with a brief smile.

"Are we getting my medicine today?" he asked, letting go of me to shrug out of his jacket the rest of the way.

"Yeah. We'll give it a couple hours, then we can go," I said, then hesitated. "Look, I know you're not—thrilled—about the antidepressants, Justin." Hell, I wouldn't be either. It was ironic, really, when you considered that my first instinct was to run for alcohol and drugs and all kinds of illegal shit when life got a little too hard, and yet if a therapist ever officially prescribed me something, I'd most likely tell them to go fuck themselves. I wasn't entirely sure how that made sense. It probably didn't.

"But..." I continued. He looked up at nervously, and I knew what the cause behind that uneasiness was. He knew perfectly well what my response to being prescribed psychological medication would be. Of course he did. But somehow, it was different when it was him. I had seen him go through too much, suffer through too much pain, not to think the medication was a good idea, in this case. I wouldn't dream of giving him crap for it. There was nothing about it to be ashamed of. "I'm really glad you decided to try them."

He looked momentarily surprised, but quickly rearranged his features into a neutral expression. His fingers gripped the edge of the counter as he avoided my eyes.

"I meant what I said about wanting to stop feeling like this," he shrugged. And just as when he'd said that he'd never really wanted to die, I knew that this, too, was true. He was still hurting. He still felt these things, had these memories haunting him inside his head. Fuck, if he didn't, we wouldn't be in therapy. He still had issues to work through, we both did. Just last week I'd come out of the shower to find him sitting on the couch crying for no apparent reason. I didn't think there'd even been one. Just this overwhelming sadness that hadn't quite given up on him yet.

"Um...do you want to watch some TV?" he suggested, looking up at me at last, and though the deliberate change of subject was more than obvious to me, I went with it.

I nodded. "You want to eat something first? We've still got enough food from Deb to last us for the next eight months," I managed to smile.

He chuckled. "Hopefully there won't be any leftovers this weekend."

I grinned. "Maybe we can force them on the Munchers instead. By the way, did you decide what you wanted to have for dinner? Debbie said she'll fix whatever you want."

He shrugged, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a few of Deb's plastic containers, which he proceeded to dump on the counter. "I don't care."

I peeled the lid off of one of the containers, grimacing. "Just no more meatloaf," I warned him.

He smiled. "You know you love it."

We worked in silence for a while, preparing our food. I didn't typically eat leftovers like this, but I didn't feel like waiting for food if we ordered in, and it was a lot less hassle than fixing something else. Besides, Justin was particularly fond of Debbie's cooking, which meant he would likely eat more of it than anything else I could offer.

"You know Debbie's boyfriend is coming to dinner this Saturday," I told him as we sat down to eat.

"The cop?" he asked through a mouthful of meatloaf.

"Yeah. I think they may actually be the first hetero couple to set foot inside that house," I joked. He laughed. I decided, lesbianism and all, that it was the most beautiful sound I would ever hear.

"I talked to Lindsay yesterday," I continued. "She said Gus is looking forward to seeing you again. He wants to bring that fucking race car he was talking about to show you."

His grin widened, and he practically snorted into his plate at my son's enthusiasm. "Great."

I allowed a small hint of my own smile to settle around my lips. "So...is this going to be a regular occurrence?" I asked hesitantly.

"What?"

"Going to dinner." He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. "No pressure, just asking," I assured him.

He shrugged. "Maybe...probably," he said slowly. I nodded. Good. That was very good. "It's just..."

My eyes were trained on him in a second, every instinct I'd developed these last few weeks drawing my attention to the quiet discomfort in his voice. I had become a fluent speaker of Justin's subtextual messages, recognizing his every intonation and unspoken sentiment. "What?" I asked softly.

He took a deep breath, fidgeting with his fork. "I...had fun last Saturday," he admitted. "I mean, I...it was nice. It's just that...it's hard being around them, you know?"

I nodded. "Maybe we just need to practice, like we did before," I suggested. That was what had worked the last time, after the bashing. All those times we'd practice going out in public places, in crowds, him clinging to my hand or walking down the street towards me. He'd been so scared back then, glued to my side every time we so much as set foot outside of the loft.

"Not just that...I mean..." he sighed. "Never mind."

"Tell me," I encouraged. "Justin...." He glanced up uncertainly, and I fixed him with a serious look. "Tell me," I repeated.

He sighed again, setting down his fork at the side of his plate, as he worked through what he wanted to say in his head. "Don't get mad..." he warned me.

Of course, any sentence of his that began with those three words was actually a fairly accurate warning that I was about to do exactly the opposite, but I nodded. Even if I did get mad, I would keep my cool. Somehow.

"It's just...I don't know. It's like—everyone _knows._ Even if they don't know, if they're total strangers or something, it's like they can see it just by looking at me," he struggled to explain. "And with Debbie, and Michael, and everyone else...I mean, I know you were right...they just want me to be okay...but still—they know it's _there."_

"They know..._what's_ there?" I asked, frowning.

He avoided my eyes, staring at his plate of half-eaten meatloaf. "You know...what I am," he shrugged. "What I did."

"You didn't _do _anything, Justin," I said fiercely. A little too fiercely; I berated myself for my loss of control.

"I got myself...hurt. I went to that party and let it happen. And they all know that, or at least they know enough," he argued.

I sighed, and set my fork down, as well. I hated this. I hated so much that he blamed himself for what those bastards had done.

"Christ, Justin...you made a mistake, okay?" I told him, trying to keep my voice even. I wasn't really angry, not at him. Just...frustrated. Desperate to make him see that it was not his fault. It couldn't be. That was just...fucked up. "No one asks for this to happen to them. No one chooses to be—raped—all right? No one."

"But I _went _there," he said, his desperation rivaling my own, in each of our separate quests to make the other understand. But how could I possibly understand his rationalization, when it resulted in the acceptance of blame over something that couldn't be any _less _his fault? "I _chose_ that," he said bitterly.

"That doesn't matter," I said sharply. "You're not responsible for what they did. That was their decision. No matter what else happened, you said no. It wasn't your choice to be— It wasn't your choice."

"But I should have known," he argued, his own frustration rising to the surface, though I couldn't be sure which of us it was really directed at. "I was so stupid. I should have known what would happen."

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. I couldn't let him go on like this, blaming himself, thinking he deserved it because he'd made a mistake. One of the most horrific things that had ever happened to him—one of the most horrific things that could happen to anyone—and he blamed himself for it. "Listen to me, Justin. Are you listening?"

"Yeah, I'm listening," he snapped impatiently.

I cast my thoughts around for an example. I had to make him see, make him understand. "Look at...Michael and Ben, okay? Michael knows the risks of being with Ben. All the risks, physically, emotionally...he knows it could go wrong. A condom could break, he could get sick. If that were to happen, would it be his fault for making that decision?"

Justin's fingers clenched around his fork. "That's different. He loves Ben."

I sighed again. "Okay..." I racked my brains for another example. It landed on one. The most painful, accurate example I could think of. One that would hit home. "Prom, then." I swallowed hard. "I chose to come and dance with you at your prom, and as a result, you got hurt. Was that my fault?"

In the back of my own mind, I was disagreeing with the point I was shoving in his face, screaming that _yes, _it was very much my fault. If I hadn't gone to his prom that night, he wouldn't have gotten hurt. But if I was going to make this point, then I was going to have to play to his weaknesses. Mainly...me. He had never blamed me for the bashing. He'd had more of a right than anyone to hate me, to scream at me for being so selfish and stupid. I wouldn't have even stopped him if he did. But he didn't.

Instead, he hugged me. Told me it wasn't my fault. Basically, the same things I was trying so hard to do for him now.

"Of course not," he all but whispered, the fight suddenly drained out of him. "That wasn't...of course it wasn't. You saved my life."

"Yeah, after I nearly got you killed," I said harshly, causing him to flinch. "I went there. I should have known better, and I did it anyway." It felt like a searing, burning pain in my chest to actually speak these words aloud. Words I knew were true. But _he _didn't blame me, didn't see it that way. And if I could get him to relate that to his own guilt, then it was worth every self-inflicted stab in the heart.

"I chose that, too," he reminded me. "I danced with you."

"And I chose to sit back and do nothing while you went to that party. I could have gone with you. I could have done more, and I didn't."

"You didn't _know," _he said vehemently.

"Neither did you."

"I should have," he glowered at his plate. "I was...playing with fucking fire. I got burned. I had it coming."

"Will you fucking_ stop it!?"_ I wasn't yelling. Well, maybe a little, but I couldn't do this. I couldn't sit here and listen to him tell himself he deserved what he got. "Stop _fucking _saying that! This is not your fault, Justin. It just...it just _happened,_ all right?"

"Because of what _I_ did!"

"Because of what _he _did!" I corrected harshly. "Because he's a sick bastard who saw a chance to take what he wanted, and he went for it. Because _he_ made the decision."

"And I made it so _fucking _easy!" he snarled, his voice cracking. "Be honest, that's what he saw! You know it, he knew it...the little whore who'd just let him do whatever he wanted..."

I didn't know why the words felt like a slap in the face, a kick to the gut. They were directed at himself, and yet it felt as if he'd hit me with the lowest blow imaginable.

"You didn't—fucking—_let him!" _I growled. "He _raped _you!"

"I know what he did!"

"Then you don't get what it means!" I roared. "This is exactly what every Goddamn rapist out there wants their victims to think. That's it's their _fault,_ that they were _asking _for it." I swallowed the lump in my throat, pressing on determinedly. "And it never is, Justin. What happened...it was fucking horrible, all right?" My voice was losing some its fervor as more and more of my efforts were redirected at keeping it from breaking. "But whatever you did...it didn't mean anything. It didn't give him the right to do _anything_ to you."

"How can it not?" he demanded, his voice low but harsh. "I should have—"

"It doesn't matter," I interrupted him. "It doesn't. We're all fucking _human, _Justin, we make mistakes. It doesn't mean we deserve everything that happens to us...and if it does..." I swallowed again, hard. "If—doing something despite your better judgment is reason enough for you to take the blame for the party, then it's enough for me to take the blame for what happened at the prom. And it—it shouldn't be like that, Justin," I told him quietly. "It's not supposed to be like that."

He let out what I assumed was a dry sob, his eyes squeezed tight against his tears, against the truth.

"Ultimately, everyone makes their own decisions. And if...if you can hold yourself responsible for yours, then they're all responsible for theirs. It's only fair," I said rationally. "It doesn't mean they had the right, and it doesn't mean that you asked for it. It just...is," I said helplessly. "It happened because of what _he _chose to do. He raped you. He did that to you..._he _did it."

I wanted to reach across the table, pull him close and hold him and tell him this over and over, make him see, make him know. I wanted to hear his thoughts, I wanted to hear him screaming at me, if it just meant that I knew what was going through his mind. I wanted to know that he was hearing me.

He didn't speak at all as we finished our lunch in an awkward silence, and rather than carry out our plan to watch some TV together, he opted for dragging out a sketchpad instead. The gray one, unfortunately. The one with all the drawings of Sap and the others. The one that meant he was in pain.

I only hoped that he was at least realizing that it was pain he didn't deserve.

**~.. Justin ..~**

It wasn't like I didn't get what Brian was saying. Of course I did. How could I not? He was playing with some of the dirtiest moves he had, throwing them in my face in his attempt to relieve me of my own guilt. He basically said if the party was my fault, then the bashing was his.

And it wasn't. Of course it wasn't Brian's fault that I'd gotten bashed. He'd saved me. I'd been the one pissing Hobbes off all year, but even that didn't justify what he'd done. Sure, he'd been an ass to me the entire fucking school year, but I'd never once, in a million years, thought that he'd try to _kill _me.

But Sap...I should have known that he was capable of something like this. I should have known what kind of guy he was, what kind of guys his friends were. I should have seen it coming. I'd been asking for something like this to happen, shaking my ass for that stupid job. How could I have been so incredibly blind and not have it be my fault?

Fuck, I would have given anything_—everything—_to go back and do it differently. Looking back, I wasn't sure exactly why I had turned down Brian's offer. He wouldn't have held it over my head. He wouldn't have made me feel pathetic for accepting. And maybe that was the problem. I was tired of him always being there, never hesitating to give everything for me. He'd done that after the bashing, and I'd wanted to prove that I wasn't some helpless victim that couldn't survive on my own. That I could take care of myself.

And not only was this the worst type of debt that I could have possibly paid for that mistake, but in my stupidity, I had done exactly what I hadn't wanted to do in the first place. Here Brian was, once again, taking care of me, saving me from the darkness I was too helpless to fight my way out of on my own. I had tried to take responsibility for myself, and as a result, been transported right back to square fucking one.

But his words were echoing in my head. Half of me wanted to just grab onto them and let them be true, let myself believe them...the other half was screaming that it just didn't work that way.

But they made sense, in a twisted sort of way. If it was Hobbes's fault and not Brian's, then could it be Sap's fault and not mine? Could it really be that simple? If I was responsible for being an idiot, then did that mean they were responsible for their choices, too? They had chosen to hurt me, the same way I had chosen to piss Hobbes off and go to that party. They'd made decisions of their own. All those men had made the decision to rape me.

_This is exactly what every Goddamn rapist out there wants their victims to think. _

That was what Brian had said. And wasn't it true? They always say it's not the victims fault. Always. But what about when it was? Sap and the others...they'd all said things like that to me. They'd told me that I'd been asking for it all night, leading them on, hissing at me that they knew I wanted it, that I loved it, to just admit it already.

But I hadn't. I hadn't wanted it. There was a point I'd literally hoped one of them would kill me, and I didn't care how. I didn't want to live through it any longer, and I didn't want to have to live the rest of my life knowing it had happened. They'd been wrong: I hadn't wanted it at all. They'd been the ones to force me in that thing and fuck me, no matter what I had to say about it. Maybe Brian was right in that respect.

But if that was the case, then why was this so hard? If what they'd chosen was really beyond my control, why did I hate myself so much for letting it happen?

_Had _I let it happen?

But trying to answer that only incited more impossible questions I didn't want to deal with. So instead, I just pulled out a sketchbook and began to draw.

~.~.

After a couple hours of near total silence inside the loft, Brian suggested that we go pick up my medicine. He'd phrased it as a question, but I knew going with him wasn't really optional, so I put away my sketchpad and got ready to go.

"You okay?" he asked awkwardly after a completely silent fifteen minutes inside the jeep. I clutched the bag containing my medicine in my lap, refusing to open it up and look at the two little bottles of pills I knew were inside. Not until I had to.

"Fine," I muttered back, keeping my eyes trained out the window. Anything not to look at him. I wasn't sure what I'd find in his eyes if I did. We hadn't spoken since leaving the loft, and I wasn't sure I wanted to start now. However, I felt my racing mind calm just a little, the raw lump in my throat becoming just a bit easier to manage, when I felt his hand come to rest against my knee. It was no breathtaking kiss, no passionate declaration of love...just a simple gesture. But it meant more than anything he could have said to me. We rode like that the whole way home.

~.~.

"I'm not supposed to take these with alcohol," I told Brian, peering at the little bottle of antidepressants in my hand. Not that it would be much of a problem now, considering Brian barely kept it inside the loft anymore. It felt maddeningly similar to when I was about fifteen, having friends over when my parents weren't home, and they'd always locked the liquor cabinet.

He braced himself against the opposite side of the counter I was leaning on, fixing me with a soft sort of look that I knew well, but that almost looked out of place on him. It was often the look that substituted for those three little words he never used to know how to say.

"It's not a bad thing, Justin," he said quietly. "If it helps you deal...it's not something you should be—ashamed of, or anything."

"Who says I am?" I challenged mildly, twisting the childproof cap on the bottle of meds in my hand.

"No one," he admitted. "I'm just saying. I'm glad you're giving them a chance."

I nodded absently. His attitude about the whole thing had admittedly made the prospect of the pills just a lot less...uninviting. I knew how he felt about these kinds of things, therapists and their mind tricks and medications...and it somehow meant a lot that he wasn't going to give me shit for it, as though if _he _approved of it, of all people, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing after all.

"They won't start working for a while," I reminded him. That was what Kathy had told us. She said it typically took a minimum of about three weeks for the effect to kick in. She also warned us that there were a few known side-effects, and that dosages for either of the drugs may need to be adjusted in the future, but that the sleep meds wouldn't interact with the antidepressants.

"Still," he said, sliding around the counter toward me, our previous argument obviously forgotten. Which was just fine by me. Even while we disagreed, I knew his earlier blazing passion had spawned directly from his need to defend me, to protect me, even when I was the only assailant. Just another example of the many alternative ways he showed me how much he cared. "I'm glad. It feels like..." he sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know."

"I know. I get it," I told him truthfully. And I agreed. It was, however small or however large, a step in the right direction. A step towards healing. A step towards whatever we were fighting so hard for.

And all it required was a choice.

A choice to live. A choice to fight. To be a survivor and not a victim.

I was done being a victim.

I wasn't sure exactly where my objections to the medication lied. I had no problem with taking sleeping pills. I'd never had a problem with taking medication after the bashing, all my pain and anxiety pills. Maybe it was shame, or maybe it was embarrassment. Or maybe the real reason made less sense. Maybe it was because they made me feel weak.

Of course I'd always hated that my gimp hand was out of my control. I'd hated that I used to have stabbing pains in my head that made me sick. But this...this was something different. This was something inside, something inherently _me, _and I couldn't even control that. I couldn't even be happy. I had so little control over my life, lost so much of it to Sap and Hobbes and all the other men at that party, that I didn't even have the power to will myself to live.

I wasn't sure what had changed my mind. I hadn't wanted the antidepressants at first. And though I was sure it played a part, I knew sheer desperation wasn't the only answer.

It was because I was finally making a choice. _I _was taking some control of my life, taking it back from _them, _and taking a step towards making it what I wanted it to be. I'd meant what I said about finding another way out of this, another way _through _this, and I planned to do it. Maybe it had been the simple pleasure of being around my friends again. Maybe it had been the call from the clinic, or my talk with Ben. Or maybe I was just starting to remember all the good things in my life I could have if I reached out and took them back. Whatever it was, it had made me see...I was only their victim if I allowed it, if I let them have that power over me. I only lost it all if I let them take it.

Well, no more. I was done continuously letting them control every aspect of my life. I was going to fucking survive this, one way or another. There had to be a better way than giving it all up, there had to be a way to hold onto to the good things while surviving the bad. All the sensations that I loved, that I lived for—the fire that came with Brian's lips on mine, the carefree feeling of laughing with my friends, the exhilaration of inspiration as I poured myself into my art—there had to be a way to hold on to that, and still let go of the pain. There just had to be.

I'd meant it when I'd told Kathy and Brian that I regretted my decision to go up to the roof that night. I did regret it. But I couldn't deny to myself that I was still just as desperate as I'd been then. While I was still fighting that option, that craving inside me to end the pain that way...I was also still feeling it. Still feeling the hurt, still so aware—too aware—that it would be so easy to end it. To give up and let them win. To be a victim.

So if the pills were what it took, then so be it; I could give into my basic instincts of self-preservation. This was my choice. It was time to start putting myself back together.

Here was the offer, and I was accepting.


	22. Awakening

**~. Justin .~**

It was around eleven-thirty Monday night when Brian suggested that I take my first sleeping pill.

He'd hidden them away at the first opportunity, which I supposed I should have seen coming. It wasn't like there weren't plenty of other dangerous things inside the loft, if used correctly...but for whatever reason, he seemed to be particularly wary of my medicine, so I didn't object when he told me he'd be regulating it for me. It made him feel better, so really, what was the harm?

I popped the little pill he'd given me into my mouth and gulped down half a glass of water, wondering how long it would take before I started to feel it working.

Any bitterness between us over our little argument during lunch had dissipated, and he immediately agreed to my suggestion of another night on the couch. Not that we did much else any other night. I doubted I'd be awake for very long, anyway, once the medicine began to take effect, so when I crawled into his arms that night, tucking my head beneath his chin, I pressed the remote into his hand and settled in for whatever caught his interest.

It turned out to be some action-packed cop show, the kind with real footage and captions at the bottom and shaky camera work. I ended up with my head in his lap while he played with the strands of my hair...stroking them, twirling them around his fingers, combing them back from my face.

It was moments like these that made me think that I wouldn't really care if he'd never said he loved me. Letting me lay here on his lap, on his couch, in his life...he wouldn't bother with this if he didn't feel it. He wouldn't do this kind of thing. It just didn't make sense otherwise.

I gently rubbed patterns into the inside of his thigh, tracing the material of his pants with my thumb. So warm, so safe, so familiar. His skin felt almost hot as his hand brushed against my ear; it felt so good to have him touch me, even in such an innocent way as this.

It was only about twenty minutes before my eyes began drifting closed as the sleeping pill began to take effect. The cop sirens on the show suddenly seemed hushed, fading into the background, and I wondered if it was because of my drug-induced grogginess, or if Brian had turned the volume down. I didn't care. I just wanted to curl up on him and keep my eyes closed, never let go of that sweet sensation of his gentle caresses against my cheek, my neck, my hair....

Suddenly, the ring of the telephone pierced the pleasant fog that had surrounded my brain. Through my sleepy haze, I heard Brian mutter that he would be right back, then he gently lifted my head from his lap, sliding out from under me. I merely snuggled deeper into the couch cushion, though it lacked the warmth of his body, not bothering with the effort it required to open my eyelids. Vaguely, as though we were on opposite ends of a tunnel, I could hear his voice as he chatted with whoever was on the phone. I wondered dimly who the hell was calling at this time of night, but decided that I was too comfortable to spare much thought about it.

"That wouldn't work. He knows how to cover his ass," I heard Brian say. "What the fuck do you think? Of course I don't want that to happen."

He didn't sound too pleased with whoever was on the other line, and if my eyelids weren't so incredibly heavy, I would have opened them to get up and ask what was going on. It didn't really matter, though, as long as I could continue to just lay here, so comfortable and warm and sleepy. I could always ask him tomorrow.

"This weekend. But that still doesn't mean—well, that could work."

Now he sounded somewhat optimistic. I latched onto the sound of his voice, smooth and familiar, letting it lull me into the deepest state of relaxation I'd ever known. I loved hearing his voice, everything about it was just so captivating and entrancing and_ Brian. _

"We'll try it. I just want it done. Whatever it takes," he said this last part quietly, almost to himself. Suddenly, the world seemed to go silent, and I figured that he must have hung up. I waited for him to come back, wanting his warmth back around me and his hands in my hair and the feeling of ultimate protection that came with having him close, but before I even really knew what was happening, the world around me disappeared, and I was gone.

When I woke, I didn't even realize at first that I'd fallen asleep. There was no mingled relief and panic, no instance of realization that whatever terrors I'd been experiencing were just dreams. There was only weak sunlight on my face and warm blankets surrounding me, and though I was tucked neatly into my side of the bed, I couldn't remember falling asleep there.

I took a deep, cleansing breath, and let it out, snuggling further into my cocoon of blankets. My eyelids were still a bit heavy, my brain a bit groggy, but I felt...rested. Rejuvenated. I tried to remember the last time I'd slept so well, and realized that it hadn't been for months. Since before the bashing, at least. Just sweet, blissful nothingness while my body recharged.

I heard a deep, gravelly sigh from somewhere to my right, and squinted through my half-open eyelids at the figure next to me. I smiled softly. I'd forgotten just how beautiful he looked when he was sleeping. Not that he wasn't always beautiful, but there was something about Brian when he was asleep, some aura of vulnerability, of utter peacefulness he never had during his waking hours.

A few strands of tussled auburn hair had fallen across his forehead, and I longed to reach out and brush them away. Or, better yet, find a drawing pad and sketch him. Reaching over to the bedside table, beneath my therapy log, I tugged out my favorite sketchpad, with the pale green cover. It was the one that contained all my recent drawings of Brian, of my friends, of anything and everything that I just felt like capturing on paper. Sketches of Sap and my other attackers weren't allowed in this one, weren't allowed to taint it with ugliness and pain.

I traced Brian's face with a decisiveness that came only from experience. I had his every feature memorized. I knew exactly how his eyebrows would come together to form a crease when he was troubled about something. I knew the way his lips would curve upward every so slightly in that smile he saved for a select few people, myself included. I knew the way his eyes shone when he was happy, or blazed when he was in pain...I knew exactly how every emotion marked his expression in its own individual way. I could read his every look, every gesture, every indication, as though he were a book written in a foreign language that only I knew how to speak.

Eventually, as I laid there, I finished sketching the almost angelic expression of peace on his face, the wisps of sleep-mussed hair, and his head gave way to his neck and shoulders. I had often admired the sharply defined curves that were his upper body, from both a gay mans' perspective, as well as an artists', and once again, it struck me just how incredibly gorgeous he really was. Most of that hunger for him, that desire in me that I used to know so well had faded in these last few months. I never used to be able to keep my hands off him, but I had settled, in more recent times, to just observing from a distance. Looking, but never touching...at least not like I used to. But God, he was so beautiful it hurt. I could appreciate that, even now.

I was so enamored with my capture of perfection on paper that I didn't even realize at first that he'd opened his eyes, the breathtaking intensity of his hazel orbs directed right at me.

"Having fun?" he asked, and there was something just a little too knowing in his lightly amused tone, like he knew exactly what I'd been thinking.

I smiled. "Always," I said truthfully, setting my sketch down on top of the blankets for him to see. He reached a hand out from under the covers to run a finger along the edge of the drawing, over his own perfectly sculpted shoulder.

"It's good," he said generously, "really good." He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Not that I'd expect anything else, considering the subject matter."

I snorted and rolled my eyes in exasperation. He grinned unapologetically, laying back against his pillows.

"So, how did the pill work?" he asked hesitantly.

I frowned. "Pretty good, I guess. No nightmares, at least." It was the most amazing thing, not to dream when you fell asleep. Before the bashing, it used to happen a lot...I rarely remembered what I dreamed at night, except for maybe the ones I used to have about Brian. Afterward, though, and especially these last few months since—well, since _it—_I recalled a lot more than I wanted to...dreams I was almost sure were memories that my mind worked too hard to suppress when I was awake, ridiculous scenarios that seemed so very real until I broke free from the restraints of my nightmares. Dreamless sleep...it was a blessing.

"Good. You were out like a light," Brian laughed quietly. "I went to answer the phone, and when I came back, you were drooling all over the couch cushion."

I blushed. "Was not."

He raised an eyebrow, propping himself up on his elbow so that he was facing me. "You wanna bet? There are stains on the cushion to prove it, Sunshine."

My blush deepened, and he snickered.

"Who the fuck called you at twelve o'clock at night, anyway?" I asked, deliberately steering the conversation well away from my embarrassing subconscious activities, while silently vowing to check the cushion later to see if he was telling the truth about the stains.

An odd expression came over his face then, a thin veil of sorts slipping behind his eyes. It was a look I'd seen on him so many times since I'd known him, when he'd close himself off behind his infamous Kinney Mask and shut out the world. It was a look that meant secrecy. It was a look that meant, for some reason or another, he felt like he had to hide from me what was going through his mind. I hadn't seen that expression on his face in a while, and was surprised at just how uneasy it made me now.

"Just some asshole I work with," he brushed off my question. "The price of being a success...everyone wants you to bail them out of their fuck ups."

"Oh. So...are you going to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Bail them out?"

He shrugged. "I'll talk to them today at work. We'll see what happens."

I nodded, though I was certain beyond a doubt that he was lying. Or, if not lying, then at least not telling me the full version of the truth. Normally, I might demand to know what he was omitting, reminding him that our open communication policy was a two-way street, but I didn't want to push him today. Not right now. It would shatter this utterly relaxed, pleasant daze that came with a full nights' sleep and a morning full of sunshine. I didn't want to ruin it just yet; it was too rare, too fragile to destroy it with what would inevitably end up as an argument. Besides, if it was anything crucial, he'd let me know.

Probably.

~.~

That day was the first I'd taken an antidepressant. It had been waiting on the counter that morning, a single white pill that Brian had retrieved and set out for me. It was little reminders like these that hurt almost more than the memories. They punctured the fragile illusion of happiness, of normalcy, never quite allowing me to forget that no matter how hard I tried to run, this was still my life. I could steal away inside little pockets of almost-happiness, soak up the relief and try not to think too much or feel too much, try not to remember...but it always came back. And when it did, it hit me like a brick wall of grief, leaving me not only wondering how it was possible that I'd ever been even the slightest bit happy in the first place, but longing wistfully for that feeling for just a few more seconds. A little while longer to love living. The atmosphere itself suddenly seemed generally heavier, a weight sinking into my gut and making itself at home. Ironic, really, that the little white pill was supposed to be suppressing exactly those feelings in which the sight of it drew from me.

I couldn't deny, though, that the sleeping pill had at least done its job. I felt as though a relentless burden had been removed from my shoulders, no longer dragging me down with the fatigue that had clung to me for months. Physically, I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so good. It was amazing how much of a difference it made. No dreams of being attacked, no nightmares in which I was screaming and they were laughing and I was helpless...nothing to drag me back to that night and trap me inside it once again. I was truly free from it, free from them.

I'd taken anxiety pills after the bashing, though the drowsiness that accompanied them had just been more of a side-effect than the actual point of the medicine. Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night and be so upset that Brian would have to get one of the pills for me, and wait up with me until they knocked me out again. I'd forgotten exactly how wonderful artificially-induced sleep really felt. If antidepressants could do for my mind what the sleeping pills did for my body...fuck pride, fuck shame and weakness...it was worth it.

I went to my mom's that day while Brian was at work. I even managed to get some school work done, between all his insistent text messages. There'd been quite a few for them to be strictly a precautionary measure, which left me wondering if they were really only to check up on me or if he honestly just wanted to talk. Finally, after being interrupted from my project for the fifth time in an hour, I told him jokingly to get off the damn phone and get back to work.

He ordered Thai on our way home from my mother's, timing it perfectly so that it reached the loft just five minutes after we arrived home. I sat and listened while he told me about a particularly successful meeting he'd had that day, and how he'd had to save at least a dozen peoples' jobs by lunchtime. (I was reasonably certain this part of the story was leaning towards indulgent fiction. He tended to cast himself as the hero in most of his work stories.) He then fired a series of questions at me concerning my own thoroughly unexceptional day at my mother's, as though hoping to get me distracted enough not to notice as he piled a ridiculous amount of food on my plate. He was trying to give me my space, give me my life...but he obviously meant what he'd said before—protecting me came first.

"So, what's on the schedule for tonight?" he asked after dinner as he assisted me in carrying our dishes to the sink. At one time, this question would have been his way of asking, _Babylon, Woody's, or a night in bed?_ Now, it was more a reference to the TV guide than anything else.

"Not much. I need to shower," I shrugged. "And I need to shave, can you get the razor out?" In truth, I probably could have found the thing myself if I'd really wanted to. There were only a number of hiding places for things like that in the loft, after all. But I let Brian have his sense of comfort, the feeling that he was actively protecting me, no matter how frustrating it sometimes got, being treated like a small child where the parents had to baby-proof the house.

He agreed, and fifteen minutes later, once we got dinner cleaned up and I'd raided his closet for a shirt to wear, I heard the door of the bathroom open over the rush of the shower. He'd waited a good five minutes, I'd noticed, before bringing the razor in, but I wasn't sure if this was because he wanted to make sure I was definitely inside the shower before retrieving it from its hiding place, or if he just wanted to respect my privacy as much as possible.

Peering through the steamed glass door, I watched as he set the razor down, deliberately not looking in my direction. Sometimes—most times—I appreciated this. It made me uneasy, feeling his eyes on me, raking over my body, knowing what was going through his mind. Still, other times, I missed the old days when he couldn't keep his gaze off me. I used to love when I'd catch him staring, his eyes glued to me like there was no one else in the world. I used to love looking across the dance floor at Babylon and seeing him, knowing that he was seeing me back, knowing that he wanted _me, _more than anyone else. I used to love that he could never get enough.

"Hey, Brian?" I called before he could leave me alone again. His eyes were on me before he could force them not to be. "Um...could you hand me a new bar of soap?"

I heard him mutter something in the affirmative, and a few seconds later, he was in front of the shower, soap in hand. I opened the door a crack to reach out and take it, feeling goosebumps shoot up my arm, less from the sudden chill than the idea of him so close...it would be so easy for him to pull open the door and force his way in here, inside this little space with me, so close....

I pulled my arm back inside the shower, fingers clenched around the bar of ridiculously expensive soap, and berated myself for allowing my panicky imagination to invent such a stupid scenario. By the time I'd worked up the nerve to glance out the glass doors again, he was gone.

I quickly finished up, shutting off the shower, dripping water everywhere as I climbed out. As an almost automatic reaction, I glanced at the door. Shut, but not locked. Brian didn't like the door locked anymore.

Wrapping a towel firmly around my waist, I reached for the razor he had left on the counter beside the sink. Fuck, he'd actually _left it?_ Left _me _alone with it? He hadn't done that since...well, since he'd started hiding it, that day he'd found those disturbing drawings in my sketchbook, all those weeks ago. I smiled a little to myself. Maybe things really were starting to settle down into a place we could finally be comfortable with.

The rest of the night passed, easy and relaxed. He didn't say a word when I came out of the bathroom, apparently deeply absorbed in some fascinating newspaper article. Though when I asked him what it was about, he'd done a lot of uncoordinated stammering, which made me wonder if he'd honestly been paying it the slightest bit of attention, or just staring at it and worrying as he waited for me to come out of the bathroom.

He put the 'riveting' article aside, however, and joined me in the living room, settling into the cushions on one end of the couch watching TV, while I sat on the other, sketching him. I loved catching him when his attention was utterly absorbed in something, whether it was a person, such as Gus, or some project for work or, like now, the television. I just liked that subtle interest in his face, that attentiveness in his eyes. It always made me wonder what was going through his head.

Sometime during the evening, Brian got up to go to the bathroom, and when he came back, he somehow had one of my sleeping pills in his hand, telling me it would be on the counter whenever I wanted to take it. About a half an hour later, I did, and another half hour after that, I was lost to the world.

~.~

On Friday, Brian ended up being late to pick me up from my mother's. I'd figured he'd gone somewhere to get his dick sucked, or at least grab a drink with his friends, which he did once or twice a week, before emerging himself in this black hole of nothingness with me. And there _was_ nothing. No electricity. No sparks flying. Just comfort. Just barren solace.

When he arrived, however, at my mother's doorstep, it was with an apologetic half-smile and an explanation that he'd stopped by the video store to rent us some movies.

"Thought it'd be better than more bad sitcom repeats of yesteryear," he shrugged.

He used to pretend to hate movie nights...that was, before this whole thing had happened. It used to take at least an hour of exasperated bickering just to get him to go to the video store with me, then more playful arguing over our contrasting tastes in films, then listening to him bitch and complain the whole way home about staying in to watch movies like old married breeders.

Now, Brian went of his own free will. Now, he and I had become the shut-in couple with almost no social life. Now, there was no getting distracted halfway through the movie in favor of sex, because the very idea of it filled me with an ache deep inside my chest that made me want to cry...we just didn't have that anymore.

We used to be one of those sickening couples that made everyone roll their eyes and that couldn't keep their hands off each other longer than it took to tear off the other's jeans. I'd never minded that much, because whatever reputation Brian had gained, with his friends or the general public, _we _had gained a reputation of our own. It was always me and him, him and me...I was the other half of the nauseating twosome. Half of a _couple. _

And now there was nothing and it killed me.

It was more than just the pain I'd been carrying around with me for months. It was more than the memory of what had been done to me. It was even more than the fact that I was the broken half of the pair of us.

It was that I missed him.

It wasn't fair. It hurt me so much that he was standing here in front of me every day, telling me he loved me and would be there for me and acknowledging a future together, and all I could do was love him. All I could do was feel it in every inch of my body.

It wasn't enough. I missed him too much for it to be enough.

I wished I could just let it go and put it all out of my mind, wished I could have that part of me back...but what if it was just gone? From the first time we'd had sex, that night that had changed my life forever, it had been about so much more than just fucking...at least to me. Feeling him on me, in me, filling me up with himself and making me his...it was just—it was beyond anything I had words for. It was something that was mine and his and nobody else's...no one else could possibly feel what I felt when I was with him. I was different, and we both knew it. He _loved _me, and I loved him more than I could express. All the amazing things it was possible to feel with him, and now it had just been stolen from me.

Maybe Brian sensed the negative shift in my mood, because the whole way home, he tried commendably to interest me in the movies he'd gotten, rambling off their descriptions and even offering his back rub services for the night, so that by the time we arrived at the loft, I was feeling just a little less morose and looking forward to another night snuggled into my boyfriend, watching a movie on our couch, just being together. Being a couple. No matter what we no longer had between us, no matter what was missing, that part of being with him never got old. I imagined I would always enjoy Brian's company. Joking with him, talking with him...there had been nights, even before all this, where I'd fix dinner and we'd do nothing all night but stay up talking about a million different things. That was the thing about Brian, he always had something to say about everything. He was smart and funny and we just fit so seamlessly together, talking about nothing and everything in a way that was so comfortably _us. _

"I need a shower," I told him, slipping off my shoes and tossing my jacket over a chair. "You can start watching without me. Watch the one with the creepy cover," I advised, referring to the movie with the grotesque mutant-human-thing on the front as its main visual advertisement. I never understood the appeal, but Brian always went straight for the movies with the most terrifying covers. In other words, exactly the type of horror flicks that had been known to scare the shit out of me.

He apparently took my advice to heart, because the second I stepped out of the bathroom, a bloodcurdling shriek of terror pierced my ears, accompanied by what sounded like a growl. There would be no ignoring the wails of agony and fear echoing across the room, I knew, so I decided that on the couch with him watching the movie was better than across the loft alone listening to it. I sat down next to him, curling up close—_cuddling, _whether Brian wanted to admit it or not—and settled in to watch the remainder of the DVD with him.

I wasn't sure how it happened.

We were just lying there, me with my eyes temporarily closed to avoid looking at the disgusting alien/zombie/whatever the fuck it was supposed to be this time on the screen as it devoured random humans...smirking occasionally at Brian's unflattering critiques as they were thrown at the screen. Really, I didn't know why he bothered to rent these types of movies...he did nothing but pick them apart and complain about the gaping plot holes and lack of gay sex. Maybe he realized that I was currently scared shitless, because he leaned down to kiss my cheek, brushing against a lock of my hair with his nose.

I turned slightly in his arms, daring to open my eyes, and he kissed me. No warning, no second thoughts...just a simple, innocent kiss. Soothing. Reassuring. Keeping me safe from...well, mutant alien zombies, but the sentiment was there. I almost snorted at the thought, but then he was kissing me again, soft and sweet, and I opened my mouth against his, allowing his tongue to slip inside and brush against mine tentatively, as though testing to see what he could do. He must have had candy earlier or something, a peppermint maybe; I could taste it on his tongue, and caught its scent, minty and sweet, on his breath as he drew away for air.

His hand was warm and gentle as he caressed my stomach and chest, not daring to slip beneath my shirt, just rubbing circles into my skin through the fabric. It felt good, both in that the reassuring gesture was appreciated, and that it sent tingles throughout my body, making me shiver.

I kissed him harder, my tongue tangling with his, while he slid his hand downward again, over my stomach, to rest on my hip, where it stayed. I remembered how he always used to hold me like that while we fucked, pulling himself in deeper, pulling me closer to him. If I could, when I was on my back, I'd wrap my legs around him and pull him in, right where I wanted him, had always wanted him to be.

He was taking his sweet time, occasionally running a hand up my arm or across my cheek. Just kissing like we had all the time in the world, and there was nothing he'd rather spend it doing than tasting me.

I let my fingers tangle themselves in his hair, marveling at how soft it felt, how warm his body was, his unique flavor as his tongue swept against mine, probing inside my mouth as though it were the sole explorer on some great voyage, until he had to surface for air. His breath was hot and sweet against my face. It always had smelled pleasant...sometimes like coffee, or sometimes, like now, like candy mints...but always good. Just another reason to love his kisses. So romantic and loving and just...nice. He touched me like he was afraid he would break me if he moved too fast, kissed me too hard. It was like that first time after the bashing, or when I would wake up from my parking garage nightmares...like he was afraid I would shatter beneath his fingertips.

Suddenly, his tongue was being withdrawn from my mouth, the wet warmth of his lips leaving mine. I was about to pull him back down to me, when he surprised me by leaning down and pressing his lips to my ear instead. In the back of my mind, a familiar, panicky voice warned me to stop this now. But my tongue, apparently, was under the command of a different voice, a stronger voice telling me to hold on, trust myself and trust him, and just let this happen for now. I knew what I wanted and what I could do and what I couldn't. I knew he'd never hurt me or take it too far. _Relax, Justin. Just let it go..._

Hot breath and meaningless whispers, light kisses in that spot behind my ear that he found with the ease of experience. I could feel him starting to get hard against my leg, and wondered if he could feel that, though I wasn't, every other part of me had stiffened in response to what he was doing. It _was _more than we had done in a long, long time. But it was something that I could handle, wasn't it? Nothing scary about it. Just Brian, who loved me and whom I trusted more than anything in the world. Just my home and the couch where I'd spent so many evenings and the man I'd spent them with lying on top of me, kissing down my ear and my jaw and making my skin tingle in a way I'd forgotten it could do.

He was still going slow...now peppering my neck with kisses one moment, then traveling back up to my ear the next, sucking lightly on the lobe before moving back down to my neck. I had my eyes open, trying to find some sense of balance, something to grab onto and hold myself in the moment. I wasn't hard, not at all...and though it used to be that I could get hard from a simple _look _from Brian, I hadn't gotten an erection since _it _had happened, and I still didn't have one now. I could feel Brian's pressing into my leg...should I be worried that I wasn't...?

If Brian noticed my body's lack of a response, it didn't seem to concern him as he nuzzled my neck playfully, reassuring me with light little kisses and the familiar weight of his hand, still at my hip. A warm stream of air across the skin he'd just ran his tongue over. Lips finding that spot that always made me moan. I didn't, not this time, but it did feel good, like some dormant part of me was stretching and yawning, awakening after such a long period of isolated hibernation.

His hand still hadn't removed itself from my hip, his other arm propping himself up so that he wouldn't crush me. Fuck...I was actually letting him do this. I was letting him touch me and kiss me and not freaking out. Well, not too much. My eyes were still open, my breathing a little uneven, though I couldn't be completely sure if that was from my uneasiness, or Brian's ministrations. They did feel good. I'd forgotten it was even possible to feel these things, these wonderful sensations in my body....

He was back at my mouth again. Kissing me soundly, as though nothing in the world mattered more than that the two of us stay connected by the lips. Like we had forever for this...so languid and leisurely, so pleasant, so good....

And then I ruined it.

"NO!"

I wasn't sure what it was. He hadn't even done anything more, anything different. I was fine one moment, a little tense, but fine...and then I was just...I don't know. I don't _know. _It was like he was gone, his lips, his tongue, his body...and it was all dark and cold and terrifying and I couldn't move and couldn't breathe as everything I tried not to remember came rushing back at once. I could hear Brian's voice—sharp and panicky in its own right—calling my name, telling me it was okay, even as I tried to push back _their _words to me, their taunts and vile whispers.

It was only for a second, really, a momentary flash of wild panic, but it was enough.

When it passed, died away and relinquished its temporary hold on my body and life, I realized my hands were clenched tightly at Brian's shoulders...my attempt to push him away. Not that I needed to; he had stopped, heeding my cry against his lips, and backed off on his own, though his hands were at my arms, probably to keep me from physically going insane on him.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. Shit. _Go back go back go back..._ Couldn't I go back, just this once, to ten seconds earlier? Back to kissing Brian and letting him kiss me back and touch me and make feel so good....

And I'd ruined it. Destroyed it. Broken it, the way he seemed so afraid of breaking me. But it wasn't _him_ breaking me. It was me, my own mind, ripping me apart from the inside out.

"Justin, hey," His tone was one of forced calm, but I could hear the underlying urgency as he fought to get my attention, "Justin, are you okay? Talk to me..."

"Fine," I gasped out. "I'm fine. Fuck."

"What?" he asked, pushing himself off me a bit. "What is it? What did I do?"

"Nothing," I said truthfully. He hadn't done anything. It wasn't him. It was all _them _and what _they'd _done. It always was. Ever since that night, that was all my life had been. They'd become everything.

"You didn't...I need to get up..." I said suddenly, pushing past him and swinging my legs over the side of the couch. I almost lost my balance as I lurched to my feet, but I maintained a hold on it long enough to carry me to the bathroom. I didn't even realize that was where I was going, barely even realized that I was even moving. All I knew was that I felt trapped and I couldn't breathe and there was that sense of overwhelming claustrophobia that wasn't going away until _I _was far away, even shut inside my little haven. I knew Brian wouldn't like it, but I locked the door behind me; it made me feel just a little safer, a little more in control. Like I could actually do something to protect myself instead of leaving it up to fate.

_Protect yourself from what? _Something, some disembodied voice seemed to yell inside my head. _What are you even protecting yourself from? Brian? _

Even inside my own head, that sounded ridiculous. Because it wasn't anything physical I was fighting, it wasn't anything I could shut out or shove away or run from.

I was fighting memories. Fighting the past.

I was trying...so fucking hard. I was doing everything I could possibly do, and yet I still felt so far away from the things I wanted most. Why did this have to be so difficult? It was just Brian, for Christ's sake. Brian, who loved me. Brian, who protected me, who took care of me, who I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt would never do anything to hurt me. I trusted him with everything I had. So why couldn't I just fucking let this ugly thing inside me go? Was I so fucked up that even the idea of being with my boyfriend sent me into a panic?

Well, yes. I was. And that was the whole thing right there. I was just so fucked _up._ I had this—whatever this was, these memories, this _rape—_inside me, inside my skin, inside my head...and it wasn't letting go without a fight. It clung to me still, shoving away the things I'd always took comfort in, the things I loved. It kept me from kissing Brian the way I wanted, it kept me from touching him the way I used to, or letting him touch me...and while things were better than they had been in a long time, they still weren't anywhere near what we used to have. In the end, it didn't matter that nothing about the here and now was anything like that night. It didn't matter that he was nothing like them. It didn't matter because all I ever _felt _was them, and I'd never figured out how to get past that. I couldn't even distinguish the touch of my rapists from the touch of my boyfriend. Those few moments I couldn't tell memories from reality, it was exactly like trying to tell the difference between night and day while wearing a blindfold.

Not entirely unexpectedly, I'd been inside the bathroom for all of eighteen seconds when there was a sharp rapping on the door. Christ.

"Justin?" He tried the doorknob, to no avail. "Justin, open the door." I could hear the urgency in his tone, a clear warning, and even I had to admit that it wasn't exactly unwarranted. This was a little too familiar, a little too much like all the other times I'd forced us into this scene for either of us to be comfortable with it.

Slowly, from my place on the floor, slumped against the wall, I reached up and unlocked the door. He opened it gently and stepped inside, his eyes finding me immediately, his expression falling slightly, as though he'd been hoping for something other than me crying pathetically on the floor. He sighed, running a hand over his face, and slid down the wall beside me. And beneath the concern, beneath everything, I could see it in his eyes...the unmistakable presence of guilt. Like he'd done something wrong. How had things become so fucked up that _that _could be considered wrong? That being _us _felt so incredibly awkward and terrifying?

"Justin..." I could hear the self-deprecating sincerity in his tone, and I didn't have to look to know every detail of the expression on his face, know that his eyes were closed and that he was running a hand through his hair and cussing himself out inside his head. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I got...I got carried away..."

"You weren't the only one," I said honestly, pulling my knees up to my chest and folding my arms around them.

"But I'm the one who's supposed to..." he let his voice trail off.

"To _what?" _I demanded, almost personally affronted by his conclusion that it was somehow his fault. I'd kissed him back, so if it was his fault in any way, then it was most certainly mine too. "To read my mind? To know when little Justin is having another one of his fucking freak outs?"

"To know when to stop," he said seriously, ignoring both my tone and my words completely. I wiped angrily at the tears that had formed in the corners of my eyes and glared pointlessly at the little tiles on Brian's floor. If it weren't for the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat, I might have tried to tell him that I hadn't wanted him to stop. That I'd kissed him back. That I'd actually really, really been enjoying it, feeling alive as he revived that part of me that only ever seemed to want to cower and hide away. "Are you okay?" he asked hesitantly.

"Fine," I sniffed, which I realized a second too late was basically undermining any composed appearance I'd been attempting to give off. I felt his hand on my back, soft and reassuring, just like his kisses, and it was all I could do not to lose it right then.

"I hate this," I told him quietly. I closed my eyes against my tears, and felt his hand move to my neck, soothing me as he stroked my hair. "I just...want to have it all back." I wasn't sure if he knew what I was talking about, so I tried to explain. "I want things to be like before."

"I know," he said quietly, still stroking my hair gently. "Me too. But...they're not, Justin," he said simply. "It takes time...."

And there it was. Exactly what I knew he'd say. Exactly what they all said. How could I possibly make him understand that I didn't want to wait anymore?

"Look, you don't get it, okay?" A little voice in the back of my head was chastising me almost before the over-worn, thoroughly untrue defense was out of my mouth.

"What don't I get?" he challenged. I glared at my own knees, but didn't answer. I shouldn't have said it. It was an old defense, and a completely for shit one at that. He may not have understood exactly what it was like to be raped, but he understood me. And what was more, he cared for me. That was enough. "Justin? What don't I get?" he demanded.

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to force back the tears at the same time as wondering if I could possibly just fall into the relief of darkness and never open them again. "It's just like...I can't even fucking _think _about sex without having this _thing _there, Brian," my voice cracked, and I took a moment to rein it back under my control before speaking again. "And it's so fucking unfair because I _want _it, you know? I want to get over this, but whenever I even think about it, even when it's you, it's like it's...like it's_ them,"_ my voice broke yet again on the last word, and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat before it could evolve into yet more tears.

"It felt _good," _I told him quietly. "I miss—I mean...it's like part of me wants it and the other part's terrified and I just _can't..."_

I glanced up at him, desperate and pained and wishing he could just take it all away and make this better. It was more than _wanting _to want to be with him. It was more than wishing for the craving I'd lost any trace of that night. I'd been kissing Brian, touching him, and it had felt so damn good...like maybe the spark between us wasn't as lost as I'd thought. Like I was just now finding something I thought I'd never see again. And I'd wanted to keep it, hang onto it and treasure it and never let it go.

Brian was quiet for a long moment. "Maybe you should talk to Kathy about this."

"We did, remember?" I reminded him. "She told me the same thing you did. _It'll come back in time."_

He sighed. "I'm trying, Justin," he admitted, the exhaustion in his voice so profound that he sounded at least three times his real age. I was sure I sounded no better. No matter how revitalized I felt waking up in the mornings after a full nights' sleep, there was nothing quite like this to remind me that all the sleep in the world wasn't enough to make the weight of the world any lighter on my shoulders. "Fuck, I'm trying."

I wiped at my eyes again, leaning into him as he put an arm around me and drew me close. I could feel the lump in my throat rising to new degrees of painful, and tried desperately to swallow it again.

"We'll figure it out, okay?" he promised me gently, his thumb stroking the skin of my forearm as he held me against him. "We'll deal with it."

"I just...it used to be—so much, Brian," I admitted softly. And this time, there was no doubt in my mind that he knew what I meant. Being with him used to be everything to me. It was more than sex, it was more than anything one person had any right to feel. And now it was just gone. Everything I used to be, everything _we _used to be...erased from my life, but for the memories. So close, so simple...but for the barrier I'd erected within my own mind. "Do you know what it's like to fucking lose that?"

For another long moment, he was completely silent. When he spoke, his voice was low and even, bursting with pages of subtext he'd never say, yet that I had no at all trouble in reading.

"Yeah, Justin," he said quietly. "I know...I know what it's like."


	23. Time

**~. Brian .~**

In a way, I supposed Justin's frustration was a good thing. It was more than just his aggravation at what he perceived as his own weakness...it was more like _yearning, _and no matter how painful it sometimes was to deal with—it was still want, it was need—and it was something positive. Something he wanted so badly it hurt, but at least it gave him something to fight for. A month ago, this wouldn't have been an issue. There was no way he could have done as much as we had earlier. He'd been in too much pain and full of too much fear back then.

He might be frustrated now, but that was only because there was a part of him that truly wanted it. There was still a piece of him inside that longed for me, for what we had together, and it was still fighting to breathe. If he was thinking about trying things again, even just what we'd done earlier on the couch, it was something...it was more than something. It was everything. It was hope. Things still weren't perfect, but we were hanging on by more than just a thread these days. And though I hated the way he got so upset with himself, so miserable and frustrated every single time it hit him that things weren't like before, this longing of his could prove to be, if not productive in itself, then at least a sign that we were headed in the right direction.

He'd told me that he had wanted it...or at least part of him did. It was only that_ other_ part of him that held him back. It was the part that still tried to skip out on meals when he was feeling particularly stressed, the part that—up until last Monday—had woken him up every night for weeks straight, drenched in sweat with tears streaking down his cheeks. It was the part that told him what happened was his fault, and needed the comfort of my hand in his when we went out, and drew pictures of strange men that featured so prominently in his memories.

It was the part of him that was still screaming.

There was something inside of him that had never stopped living within that nightmare, a bit of him that still existed inside that pocket of time, still felt those hands on him and saw those faces and heard those voices. He always carried it around with him, even now, locked away in the back of his mind. That one night had cost him so much; he would never be truly okay until he could let it go. But was that even possible? Would he ever be the same Justin he'd been before? Had he ever really even come back from the bashing?

There were times when I didn't think he ever had. Times when I was sure he never would. And still, there were other times when I'd glimpse that light in his eyes, genuine happiness on his face, and I was so sure I was looking at the old Justin.

But maybe that wasn't fair, to expect him to be the same. Maybe parts of him were different, maybe they always would be. But wasn't that the case with us all? Wasn't that part of being human? Life happened. People changed. Maybe not always for the better, and maybe sometimes it fucking sucked, the way things turned out. Maybe there was no turning back after the fact. Maybe there was no point in wishing for how things used to be.

Maybe things could still be somewhat okay.

What had happened earlier...Christ, that _kiss..._I didn't know what to make of it. Didn't know whether to celebrate the fact that it had happened, mourn over the loss of it, or some bittersweet mixture of the two. It was like living and dying all at once. It had been so good, so incredible...and then something had changed, a flash of panic to bring it crashing down around us. But it had _happened. _He'd _let _it happen. Wasn't that something to be happy about? Just the tiniest shred of hope for us to hang onto?

I shouldn't have let it get that far. I knew that. I should have known that it was too much, too soon...should have known when to stop. I'd just gotten so caught up in it, in the moment, in _him. _After so long, and he tasted so fucking good, and it was the most wonderfully intense sensation of drowning. I'd been waiting for him to push me off or tell me to stop, and when he didn't at first, I thought maybe it meant he was okay. While I was careful not to take it out of his comfort range, I'd wanted him to enjoy the feeling of really being touched again. Like maybe if it felt good enough and he knew that he was perfectly safe and that it was only my hands on him, my lips against his skin...then maybe it would help. Maybe it would give him something happy to hold onto, to prove that things really were going to be okay.

Huddled on the bathroom floor with him, I let him cry into my shoulder, soothing him with kisses to his hair and whispers in his ear, wishing with everything I had that together, we could chase away his demons.

~.~

Saturday morning marked the date of the second family dinner Justin and I were scheduled to attend. When he awoke from another night of dreamless slumber, padding barefoot into the kitchen where I sat with my newspaper and a cup of coffee, I would admit to feeling a bit wary. Between the impending dinner that evening, and what had happened between us the night before, I wasn't entirely sure how he would be feeling.

"Hey," he greeted me quietly, reaching over to take a sip from my coffee mug. I almost smiled, mostly because it was such a casual gesture, one that he apparently thought nothing of. It was something natural by now. Comfortable.

"Hey," I replied, setting my newspaper down as he went to grab a second mug out of the cabinet and proceeded to fill it with coffee. I watched as he poured in a good deal of milk and sugar, grimacing. He certainly knew how to ruin a perfectly good cup of java.

"Do you have the comics?" He nodded at my paper, taking a sip of his doctored beverage as he slid into a seat beside me. I took the hint. Apparently, we were to make no mention of the previous night's events. He was playing it casual, though I detected just the slightest hint of unease, as though he was doubting his luck at getting away with not talking about it. But what was there to even say?

"Yeah. Right here." I handed over the section of the paper that I'd set aside just for him, lifting my coffee mug out of the way as he spread it out on the table in front of him.

A half an hour later, after a second cup of coffee each, a quick breakfast, and a reminder that we were scheduled to be at Deb's for dinner that night, I sat down to do some work at the computer, while he worked on school assignments. He finished first, and when I pulled my attention from the computer screen to check on him, it was to find him curled up on the couch, a sketchpad in hand.

Shit.

Deciding I'd done enough work for the day, I shut off the computer and got up, my gaze sweeping the loft for the sign of his gray sketchbook, hoping desperately that it wasn't the one currently in his hands. I even checked the bedside table on my way to the bathroom, but all that was there was his therapy log, the clock, and his inhaler.

Green or gray. To anyone else, this wouldn't have mattered. But to me, it marked the difference between a highly distressed Justin, drowning in despair, tortured by his own memories...and a Justin who would look at me with a spark of something akin to pride in his eyes as he lost himself in his passion. Green or gray. Light or darkness. Happiness or misery.

I took a deep, nervous breath as I came down the stairs, joining him on the couch and trying to discreetly get a glimpse of his sketchpad cover. Unfortunately, it was propped against his lap, not even giving me so much as a hint to its color.

"Another Picasso-worthy masterpiece?" I asked casually, pulling his bare feet onto my lap and massaging his calf through his sweat pants. At one time, I might have joked about it, asked him if he was drawing my cock again or something of the sort. Not now. Not anymore.

He shrugged, tongue caught in between his teeth in an expression of utmost concentration. I recognized the request to wait while he finished, caught up in the flurry of inspiration. Finally, he seemed to reach a stopping point, cocking his head to the side as he surveyed his work, then held the sketch out for me to see.

"It's for Gus," he explained. "He asked me last week to draw him something."

I smiled, both at the partially completed sketch and his words. It wasn't the first time my son had asked Justin for such a thing. During visits with the Munchers, Justin had often entertained Gus by helping him draw, sketching his 'portrait,' and taking requests. Gus generally insisted on repayment, with the result that Justin was typically bringing home pages of colored sticks and blobs and generally unidentifiable shapes whenever he visited Mel and Linds.

"He'll love it," I told Justin confidently.

"It's not bad, huh?"he asked, obviously quite pleased with the sketch...and justly so. There were only two things that I'd ever known to cause his eyes to light up like that; the first was art—his passion, his purpose, an integral part of who he was—the second was me.

I glanced back at the sketch: a sleek, picture-perfect race car, no doubt Gus's request. There was only the basic outline completed, but I could already tell that it would be brilliant once it was finished.

"Move over," I told him, sliding his legs from my lap and crawling up the couch to lay beside him. He grunted something in protest, but repositioned himself until he was lying between my legs, back against my chest, my arms draped loosely around him.

We laid there for a while as he continued to work on Gus's gift. Every so often, I would look away from whatever TV show I was watching and glance down at the page, taking in the new developments and massaging his hand when it started to tremor and cramp.

As he lost himself in his world, I leaned forward and gently pressed my lips to the pale scar on his temple, still visible beneath his hair, even after all this time. You could only see it if you searched for it, and as I didn't spend copious amounts of time dwelling on the events of that night, I usually forgot it was even there. Laying here like this, though, when he shifted at certain angles in my arms, twisted just the right way—there it was. Unmistakable. Irremovable. Yet another scar he'd carry with him forever. A scar that had healed over, no longer open and bleeding, but serving as a constant reminder of one of the worst times of his life.

But...as horrible as it had been, whatever pain he'd experienced from that sliver of a scar...it was over now. Healed. It couldn't hurt him anymore.

Which prompted the question, was it ridiculous to even hope that internal scars could heal the same way?

~.~

It was a quarter to six when we left the house that evening, his newly completed sketch in one hand, my fingers clenched within the other. The hand holding thing had become such a habit for us after the bashing that even after he started getting more comfortable on his own, I had to check myself whenever we went out together, and not automatically reach for his hand. We looked exactly like all those pathetic fags I always used to make fun of, but secretly, even when it wasn't solely for Justin's comfort, I didn't mind the actual gesture too much.

This time, huddled on the doorstep of Debbie's house, he took the initiative to knock, his grip on my hand tightening for just a second when the door swung open, revealing an ecstatic redhead.

"Hey, Sunshine!" she practically squealed in delight. "Hi, honey!" she acknowledged me, though I had a feeling, at this point, it was only because I was actually physically attached to Justin.

We were promptly dragged into the house and directed toward the kitchen, where Gus, Mel, Linds, and Vic already sat. I leaned down to kiss Lindsay's cheek in greeting, and took care to give Melanie's chair a good kick on my way past, before taking a seat beside Justin, who Debbie had conveniently lead to a seat just beside hers.

"Hey Deb, where's your boyfriend?" I called above the chaos of greetings and chatter.

"He's running a little late," Debbie answered dismissively. "He'll be here. At least, he better be."

It wasn't long before Mikey and the Professor arrived, then Theodore and Emmett, and then, finally, Detective Carl Horvath. I'd seen Debbie, and even, on occasion, the Munchers or Carl at the diner during my lunchtime drop-ins, and every so often I'd go out with the guys for a drink after work before picking up Justin from his mother's or Daphne's. However, I would admit, if only within the secrecy of my own mind, that I'd actually sort of really missed seeing everyone like this. I'd missed just hanging out and having a good time, the whole gang together, with Justin right where he belonged, among all our friends.

Maybe the next time I stopped by Woody's with the guys, he'd want to come along. True, sitting in a crowded bar full of strangers probably wasn't at the top of his to-do list right now; it was certainly a far cry from gathering around the table in Debbie's familiar little kitchen, surrounded by people he knew and loved. But it wouldn't hurt to mention it, and let him decide for himself.

All through dinner, I kept watch for signs of his discomfort, just in case. His nerves hadn't been nearly as bad today as they had been the week before, but I was still determined to make sure he remained at ease. Not that he seemed to need my comfort all that much. It didn't take him long to shed his reserved demeanor, and halfway through his first helping, he was already chatting and joking with Melanie and Lindsay across the table. He never let go of my hand, but that distant hope existing so frailly inside me seemed to burn brightly, watching Justin come alive among all our friends.

For so long, there had been nothing but the knowledge of what had happened, that incessant video inside my head that refused to shut off. There had been my imagination's cruel impression of Justin's tortured face, Justin's screams as he cried for help, Justin begging and calling my name and a thousand other things I didn't want to see or hear or know. It always came back to that, the night that had sealed his fate, left him stranded in this world of confusion and fear and pain. Part of our lives, part of us. One experience, one night, one word.

Same thing with prom. All it took was the one innocent, devastatingly haunting word, and no matter how sure I was that we'd put it behind us, no matter how positive I was that it couldn't hurt us anymore, it always did, always managed to prove me wrong as I crumbled to pieces inside. Until finally I understood: we would never truly get over that. We would never completely heal from it, put it behind us and move on. It was something that had happened, something we had gone through and that had left its mark on our lives for good. Just like the scar on his temple, it would forever remain. Over, but not forgotten...never forgotten, except by the one person who had more right than anyone to remember.

But hadn't we been doing okay? Weren't there periods of not days, but _weeks _where we didn't spare it an ounce of thought? There would always be moments where it would suddenly feel like a kick to the gut...a song on the radio, the ache in Justin's hand, a toy baseball bat...but that didn't mean our lives had been _destroyed _by it. True, it nearly _had _killed us both, him in a very literal sense, myself in a more metaphorical one...but we'd picked up the shattered pieces and gone on with our lives. We hadn't let Hobbes win, hadn't let that night define us.

Maybe...maybe we could learn to do that now. Because maybe Justin sketching presents for Gus and laughing with our friends and making out with me on the couch meant that things might someday be okay. Not perfect, and not the way they were before, because it was something like stepping off a cliff—once you did, there was no going back—but maybe it didn't have to end with a head-on collision, either. Maybe there was a way to catch yourself. Maybe we could actually go one day without feeling this and breathing this and_ living_ this. Maybe these minutes and hours of sweet refuge would someday turn into weeks and months, and maybe Justin would smile more, and maybe I could really kiss him again, and maybe it would be enough.

_Maybe. _

~.~

"I think Gus liked your gift, Sunshine," I said generously as we stepped from the elevator outside the loft. My son had waited all of five minutes to ambush Justin, excitedly demanding to see his present while pressing a gift of his own into Justin's hand. It consisted of what seemed to be five colored blobs...all orange with a streak of yellow or brown on the top. Lindsay had kindly explained that the blobs were meant to be her and Melanie, Gus, Justin, and me. Justin had seemed nearly as pleased with the gift as Gus had been with his. "You'd think you told him Christmas was coming a month early."

Justin smiled, trying admirably to shrug off his jacket even as the thing clung to him desperately. "Good to know I always have one fan I can count on."

I watched in amusement for just a second longer, then took pity, grabbed the sleeve of the coat he was struggling with, and helped slide it from his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Two."

He didn't say anything as I turned to toss his jacket on a chair, but when I looked back, I thought I caught the hint of a grin.

"So, what's on the agenda for tonight? It's still early."

He shrugged, slipping off his shoes and heading for the bedroom, Gus's drawing still in hand. "We could watch that other movie you got," he suggested. I watched from the top of the steps as he slid the drawing between two pages of a sketchpad for safekeeping.

I cleared my throat, which suddenly felt dry, and agreed. If he felt even a fraction as uneasy as I did at the idea—the undeniable symmetry to the night before—he didn't show it. So after promising him that there were no deadly mutating viruses involved in this movie, we ended up on the couch together, my arm around his waist, spooned up behind him.

I couldn't explain it. All I'd expected—all I thought he'd wanted, especially after last night—was to lie here and watch a movie. But fifteen minutes in, something seemed to change. I didn't know what, or why, but I could feel it, something almost...familiar. Like we had done this before. Been here before.

His entire body tensed against mine, pressed as close as it could get. My skin seemed to burn where it touched his, his neck sprouting goosebumps where I exhaled across it. I was longing to press my lips to that little patch of skin, just to taste it, remember how it felt beneath my lips, but I held back.

Maybe he felt it, too. Maybe somehow, he was creating it—this tension, his own persistent frustration, thick with electricity. I let out a deep breath, stirring his hair, and tried to focus on the movie, just focus on the way it felt so comfortable just to have him in my arms. And it did. I didn't need anything else with him right now. And as hard as it was to put thoughts of the night before out of my head, the way it had felt so fucking amazing, I really just needed this.

"Brian." His voice was a whisper as he turned to face me over his own shoulder, our breath mingling in the air between us. It hit me then...Gus's birthday, after the party...curled behind Justin, every inch of him pressed up against me as he turned to meet my lips. That was it. Why it felt so physically familiar.

Why it felt so emotionally familiar. Not that night, but that era of our lives, after the bashing. Frustration and pain and a very real need for what we couldn't have.

I didn't move, waiting. Slowly, he shifted in my arms until we were chest-to-chest, and kissed me, his trembling hands at my shoulders. I could already see where this was going, and I wasn't sure it was a place we wanted to end up. Or at least, take the chance of ending up, not tonight, when everything was so pleasant and relaxed.

"Justin..." I admonished, pushing him back gently. Ironic, really, that I was the one stopping _him. _But I remembered last night, I remembered _that _night—that first night he'd come to live with me after he was hurt—and had to stop it here. Those were moments of our history that needed no repeating.

He allowed his lips to be separated from mine, but beneath the curtain of fierce determination, I could see the desperation that had settled over his eyes. Immediately, I felt my resolve weaken. He wanted this. I knew he did. I just didn't know if it was because he genuinely wanted to kiss me, or if it was to somehow erase what had happened last night, take it a step further, prove that he _could. _

He continued to just look at me as if he'd never seen me before now, his eyes boring into mine, waiting, wanting....

So I kissed him. He sighed into my mouth, his hand coming up to curl in the sleeve of my shirt. I wrapped an arm around his back to keep him from slipping off the side of the couch, which included the added bonus of pulling him closer to me. I could literally feel every nerve, every deprived sense in my body crackling to life, going fucking haywire as his lips moved against mine.

_Christ _it felt so good to kiss him. It was nothing like last night—slow, but with that edge of hunger—I didn't dare let it go that far, even though it really had been comparatively innocent to what we had once been capable of. But I kissed him chastely and he kissed me back and it still felt amazing. I gently maneuvered him until he was lying on top of me, still holding him close, my hand tangled loosely in his hair.

There was a part of me, just as there was of him—the part that had been craving this with everything I had—that wondered what else he'd be okay with. It was impossible not to wonder how far we could go. But the other part of me, the part sighing into his lips and leaning into his palm with every gentle caress of my cheek...was perfectly content to just let this happen. Whether he wanted to or not, this wouldn't be going any further than innocent kissing tonight, not after his breakdown in the bathroom the night before. No way in hell I was I taking the chance of sending him into another panic attack. Not as long as I could help it, and that included establishing boundaries when he was too fucking stubborn to do it for himself.

"Mmm—"

It was a noise of protest, rather than pleasure. It caught my attention, and I froze instantly when he pushed himself back from me, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He wasn't crying or screaming, however, so that was a good sign, though it did little to still my rapidly beating heart, frenzied with sudden fear, hoping that he would be able to fight it, wouldn't let it overcome him.

"Justin..." I said softly, not sure whether or not I was supposed to talk to him.

His eyes opened, clear blue orbs beneath thick lashes. "Um..." His voice was as uncertain as mine, about an inch away from panicking. His eyes had that anxious, frantic edge to them that always served as a warning.

"It's okay." I brought his focus back to me, rubbing his arm through his sweatshirt, pulling him back into the present and far away from whatever terrible flash of memory he was currently struggling with. His wide blue gaze locked with mine, steadying himself in the moment. "Slow down. It's just me."

He nodded, taking a deep breath as I continued to rub his arm soothingly.

Then, very hesitantly, he leaned back down to kiss me.

.~.

Initially, I wasn't sure what had woken me up. The first thing to come to mind was how perfectly comfortable I felt, neither too hot nor too cold, inhaling a familiar scent that I recognized to be Justin's hair. I blinked, bleary with exhaustion, suddenly aware that we were not in our bed, and that he had fallen asleep draped over me, warm and pleasantly heavy. His body seemed to mold itself into mine, rising and falling with every breath I took. I'd always loved that, the way we fit together. It had always felt so natural to wrap my arms around him, let him rest his head against me and fold him within my embrace. Not that I'd ever, _ever _admit to even allowing such lesbionic thoughts to make an imprint on my brain.

We'd been kissing on the couch for...well, I really didn't know how long it had been. The movie had still been going, the last I recalled, though we hadn't been paying it that much attention. At all. Somehow, between then and now, he'd ended up with his head tucked into my shoulder, my arms wrapped around him, both of us sound asleep.

It was with a bit of confusion that I now pulled my face away from his hair, taking in the blank TV screen, the remote on the floor, the discarded DVD case. I hated to shatter this—this utterly peaceful, most intimate of moments between us—but I was already feeling quite sore in certain places, and I was sure Justin wouldn't appreciate the aches and pains tomorrow morning, either. Though he probably was getting the better deal, curled up on top of me.

As I forestalled the moment where I'd have to get up and carry him into bed, my mind drifted lazily to our earlier activities. There was really no way to describe the way it had felt. I'd never imagined that something so innocent could feel so intimate, so simple yet so amazing. I'd never thought that just _kissing _someone could be the highlight of my day. Okay, fine, my week. But then again, he wasn't just anyone. He was Justin_, _and shouldn't I have been used to him shattering my expectations by now? I'd forgotten just how easily he could get to me, and how intense it always was, especially strengthened as it was now, after all this time without him.

And he'd actually let me do it...his mind had actually allowed his body what it so desperately wanted. I imagined a fraction of it, however small, had been out of a desire to needlessly prove himself...but there was more to it than that. He'd been genuinely happy to be with me in any way he could, trusting me, trusting himself. That had been obvious when he'd settled for such innocent kisses, smiling into my lips whenever I would run my thumb along his cheek or nuzzle his forehead.

Kathy had assured us that his sexual appetite would start returning on its own when he was ready. She assuaged his fears—both of our fears—telling us that it was unlikely that anything was really wrong, that it was an emotional issue rather than a physical one, that people who had gone through what Justin had didn't usually have much sexual desire to speak of at first. The prospect of anything real happening was so far off it was practically nonexistent, but I could honestly say I didn't really give a damn at that moment. I gazed down at him in wonderment, at the almost angelic expression of deep sleep frozen on his face, the way his hair fell across the arm of the couch—a halo of blond.

I'd never understand how the fuck he'd managed to do that. More than anything, me_ not_ caring proved just how much I really fucking did care.

I was jarred from these uncomfortably sentimental thoughts by a disturbance in the form of a small whimper.

As if by instinct, I froze, held my breath, and waited. If there was worse on the way, I was about to hear it. Was this what had woken me up?

I couldn't even count the number of times I'd woken with him, both post-bashing and post-party, holding him and letting him cry, bringing him back from breakdowns, soothing him and telling him over and over that he was safe, that everything was all right. I could never remember being such a light sleeper before all of this, but it was as though my body always knew not to drift too far away, that Justin would be needing me awake and coherent.

Sure enough, just as I'd expected, a second little whimper broke the silence, accompanied by unintelligible mumbling.

"Justin," I whispered, immediately attempting to shake him awake. I tried not to hear any of it, just block it out, but grumbled words slipped into my awareness regardless. At my touch to his shoulder, he let out another pathetic whimper, his hands clawing weakly at my chest. The muffled little noise seemed to penetrate the haze of sleep and relaxation my brain was currently still wading through, pulling me fully into consciousness with disorienting speed. _"Justin!"_

I continued trying to jolt him awake as he let out whimpers and moans and snatches of words that I didn't want to hear, obviously in the midst of some terror far beyond what I could see or feel around me. "Justin, _wake up!" _

He awoke with a gasp, his eyes flying open. For a moment, he didn't move as reality slowly made its approach to his brain. I could practically see wave after wave of recognition as it crashed over him, the tension literally just draining from his body as it all came back to him. He ran a hand over his face, struggling to suck in a deep breath as he valiantly fought back tears.

"It's okay," I whispered, once again taking up the slow rubbing of his arm. I wished, not for the first time, that I could think of something useful to say or do. Soft assurances only went so far. More than almost anything about all this, I hated the feeling of helplessness. I hated having nothing truly comforting to say or do, hated having to just sit off to the side and watch as his mind tortured him brutally. All I could do was offer the same worthless, uniform words of comfort. Sometimes they helped, but still other times—most times—they did nothing at all. "Did you take your pill tonight?"

I racked my brains, trying to remember if I'd set one out for him. I hadn't. Shit.

He shook his head, his entire body jerking with the force of a silent sob. Fuck. We'd both forgotten. We'd been too caught up in dinner at Deb's, and drawings, and DVD's...each other.

"What was it about?" I asked routinely, sighing just a little. I'd been so sure we were done with these, I'd forgotten just how truly easy it was to bring this all collapsing back down on top of us, as if we'd never been free of it in the first place. He let his hands drop to look at me.

"Do I have to...?" he began.

"No," I said. But I knew he understood the offer for what it was. I was here to listen, if he wanted to talk. After a moment of silence, he huffed out a breath, once again running his hands over his face as I stroked his hair. "You don't have to."

"It just...it started good," he admitted softly. "It was about us."

"What about us?" I pulled him closer, still soothing and stroking wherever I could...his arms, his face, his hair. That much was within my power. That much I could do for him. Maybe it would never be enough, but it was all I had to offer him.

"You were kissing me," he continued, his eyes already fluttering closed again. "I was painting something, and you just...came up behind me and you were kissing me."

"Was I?" I kept my voice low and pacifying, trying my best to lull him back into a somewhat relaxed state. I wasn't sure exactly what time it was, but if the movie had shown all the way through and left the TV screen blank, it was probably far too late for him to take a sleeping pill now. We would just have to deal without them tonight.

"Yeah," he said, a soft smile gracing his features at the memory. I smiled too, remembering what had to be just hours before, kissing him for real. I hoped to end it there. Hoped that he would just drift off thinking about the two of us, and be okay for the remainder of the night. "It felt really nice, you know?"

"Mmm."

"But then..." his voice wavered. "I don't know, it—it all changed. I don't know what I was painting, but suddenly it turned into—him, and it was just..."

"Justin," I interrupted as I heard his breath catch. He could write all this down tomorrow. If it had really started as such a good dream, there was no reason that he shouldn't just concentrate on that for the time being. "You don't...you don't have to."

I ran my thumb along his cheek, catching a few tears as they leaked out from beneath his eyelids. I felt my heart throb with reciprocated agony.

"Just sleep, okay?" I whispered. He nodded, eyes screwed up against his tears. "I'm right here. You can sleep."

He let out a shaky sigh, and pressed himself even closer to me, his head buried in my chest. I'd move us to the bed in a few minutes, once he drifted off again. No need to disturb him more than necessary.

"Just think about us," I told him, reaching up to trace his cheek again gently. "Think about me...the first part of your dream. Just us."

Gradually, his breathing evened out, his body going slack on top of mine as he surrendered to his own exhaustion, and the knowledge that I was there to protect him.

How the_ fuck_ had we forgotten his sleeping pill? Of course we'd had other things on our minds, but Christ...we finally had the closest thing possible to a cure for exactly this type of situation, and it just slipped through our minds like nothing. One night without one of those little pills, and this was the result.

I was relieved that the medicine at least seemed to be doing its job. It was well worth it, if we could fucking remember to take advantage of the fact that he had several nights' worth of ready-made sleep in that little bottle. I didn't mind having to carry him to bed, or regulate his pills for him, as long as he was finally getting the undisturbed sleep that had eluded him for so long. It had been a relief for me, too...no more nights waking up to the sound of him screaming, no wiping away his tears and soothing him until he slipped back into a restless slumber. Until tonight, that was. It was a physical burden off both of us; we'd woken up every morning this week refreshed and well-rested.

If his antidepressants could help him as well, I had no doubt that they'd be every bit as worth it. I knew his decision to go on them had been a reluctant one, but he'd been taking them religiously once a day, as instructed. Kathy had warned us that it would most likely be a few weeks before they took effect, and I was just waiting for some sign that they were working, though I admittedly didn't know what exactly those signs might be.

Maybe just the fact that Justin had chosen to accept them was a sign in itself that he was getting better, getting back to a place where he cared enough to fight for his happiness. I couldn't blame him for not wanting the pills, not when I would have turned them down in a heartbeat myself, but unlike before, unlike when he'd turned down my offer to pay for PIFA, he was finally accepting help. Contrary to what he seemed to think—hell, contrary to what _I _often thought—that didn't signify weakness. Quite the opposite. It showed admirable strength, to be able to set aside your pride and stubborn self-sufficiency and let someone offer you what you needed. As I'd told him, sometimes a man knew when to accept help.

I got the feeling, during those moments he allowed himself to just let go, those instances where he wanted just so _much _to get better...that for the first time in a long time, I was looking at _Justin. _Sometimes just bits and pieces of him shining through, but there he was, the man I knew him to be, beneath all his pain. He had gotten his wish...he wasn't a victim. He'd had a lot of shit happen to him, but it had always been a choice, whether or not he let that define him. You couldn't always decide what hand you were dealt, but you always had the decision of how you would play it.

And he had made the decision to live...was still in the process of making that decision. He was choosing to live rather than just exist, had chosen strength over agonized passivity...had chosen fighting like the determined fucker I knew him to be. He had fought me every step of the way those first few months I'd known him, until he'd gotten where he wanted to be, here at my side. He had fought like hell after the bashing, give or take a few bumps along the road, to get out of the hospital, into PIFA, and back into my arms. And he was fighting now, yet again, to reclaim the life he once knew. And there was no doubt in my mind that, as long as he wanted it badly enough, he would get it. He always did.

Within a few minutes, he was asleep again, but still I postponed the moment I'd have to get up and take him to bed. It honestly felt kind of nice, in this exhausted haze of mine, to just lay here, wrapped around him. Not as comfortable as the bed, but comfortable enough that I didn't find the idea of moving particularly favorable at the moment. I shifted slightly, trying to alleviate the strain in my back from lying in one position for so long.

We actually often fell asleep like this these days. Not on the couch, but wrapped around each other or holding hands or just touching in some way. I never used to be able to sleep having someone else so close, but I'd gotten used to it since he'd come along...even craved it, in a way. I liked the feeling of a warm body next to mine, listening to him breathe, knowing I'd wake up to his face and his eyes, though I'd happily rip out my own tongue before telling anyone that, including him. Some things really were better left inside one's own mind. Particularly things that made me sound more like a lesbian than I already did these days. I didn't regret any of it, but I wasn't so far gone that I couldn't recognize just how damn pathetic it was. I told myself that it was all for his comfort, all because he lost it completely if he woke up and there wasn't some part of me to hold onto. But with the exception of tonight, he hadn't needed me once all week, so I supposed my excuse didn't really hold up anymore. I just_ liked_ touching him, I supposed.

I let my fingers caress his sides over his shirt, tucking his head beneath my chin. Pathetic—but not necessarily so horrible. There was something just so intimate about this, holding him while he was so serene and vulnerable. I used to watch him like this after the bashing, too. Sometimes I could catch his nightmares during the early stages, gently soothing him or waking him up before they got too out of hand and resulted in a panic attack. Pressing my lips to his forehead, then his hair, I couldn't help but marvel at how beautiful he looked like this.

I cringed at the thought of how sickeningly sentimental I had become, how my pre-Justin self would have mocked me relentlessly for even thinking things like this, but I couldn't deny any of it, either. And did I really want to? Everyone had a guilty pleasure. I was allowed mine.

And so, knowing that he was safe and at peace, I indulged myself just a little while longer before allowing myself to drift off to sleep.

We never did make it to the bed.

**~. Justin .~**

Brian spent the majority of Sunday afternoon complaining about a stiff back, the result of our night on the couch. When I'd mentioned that I'd been perfectly comfortable on top of him, he'd rolled his eyes, making some sarcastic comment that I knew better than to take personally. Brian hated a sore back, particularly when accompanied by a bad night's sleep.

I'd taken the liberty of apologizing—profusely, about eight times—for forgetting my pill, and waking us up with my stupid nightmare. He'd brushed me off, all bitterness gone from his tone, and asked me—also a good eight times—if I was okay. As though I hadn't been having nightmares like those every night for nearly four months. Christ, I couldn't believe I forgot. All the shit we went through with my nightmares, all the money Brian was paying for my medicine, and I fucking _forgot. _It wasn't like before, when I couldn't help the nightmares. Now, we actually had a proven method of management, and I forgot to take the fucking pills.

I decided to make us dinner that night, as Brian had work to do on his computer, and I didn't feel like ordering in. I mentioned this to him, watching his eyebrows practically disappear into his hair, though he hastily arranged his features into a look of casual disregard, as though worried he'd frighten away my rare desire to actually do something besides watch TV and sketch. I'd only cooked dinner a couple of times in the last few months, and he seemed to enjoy the occasions when I did...though I couldn't be sure if it was for the food, or simply the brief returns to near-normalcy. Maybe it was both.

So an hour later, I set to work in the kitchen, enjoying the feeling of having what little amount of edible food that was in the loft at my fingertips. I'd always enjoyed cooking. I loved the idea that every chef had their own style, their own unique way of doing even the most common of things. I figured being a chef was something like being an artist. It was all about taking what you had, and creating something more. Creating a masterpiece.

I ripped the corner of a bag of fresh lettuce with my teeth, tearing it open just wide enough to shake into a bowl. Not my first choice for a side dish, but I figured the only way I was getting Brian anywhere near my fried chicken was to at least pair it with a healthier alternative. And according to him, salads went with anything.

Speaking of my maddeningly mystifying boyfriend...he'd been on the phone for the last half an hour in the sanctuary of the bedroom, his work at the computer abandoned, careful not to raise his voice loud enough to carry. Which wasn't the easiest thing to do inside a place like his. As hard as I strained my ears, I couldn't quite make out the conversation. He'd said something about it being a work emergency, which was apparently more important than whatever he'd cast aside at the computer at the first ring of his cell phone. Once again, something about his explanation seemed just a little...off. I hadn't pressed for details, but I hadn't really let him off the hook just yet, either.

Finally, he hung up the phone and joined me in the kitchen, plucking a piece of lettuce from the bowl.

"Everything okay?" I asked innocently, sinking the blade of a knife cleanly through the edge of a tomato to add to the salad.

"Hmm?" he asked, though I knew full well that he heard me. So either he was distracted, or stalling for time. Neither seemed to bode particularly well.

"Is everything okay? Your work emergency?" I reminded him slowly.

His expression went from confused to completely neutral in under three seconds. "Everything's fine," he assured me. "Just a minor problem with a new account. So, what's on the menu for our dining pleasure this evening, Chef Boyardee?"

I very nearly rolled my eyes at the ridiculously obvious change in subject. "Chicken. And salad."

If it wasn't for the fact that I rarely showed such a desire for cooking or food—or much of anything really, lately—he might have protested the fried chicken a little more. As it was, he merely nodded his approval and helped me set the table.

As we sat down to eat, I couldn't help but remember another evening I'd fixed him dinner. Complete with candles and the whole deal. To this day, I couldn't believe Brian had ever gone along with that.

"What?" he asked suddenly.

I cocked an eyebrow at his question.

"What are you smiling about?" he clarified, and turned his dubious stare to his chicken. "All right, what the fuck did you put in this?"

I grinned and shook my head. "Just...thinking about that time I made you jambalaya for dinner."

For a split second, I thought he might actually deny even remembering such a thing. But then a small, private sort of smile stretched across his face, and he hastily shoved a bite of chicken into his mouth.

"Remember, I said it was better—"

"Better the second day," he recalled. He always surprised me with things like that. Surprised me that time at Babylon when he'd repeated my words to him from that first night in the back of his jeep: _I'm going with him. _Surprised me by telling me that he wanted to come home to me every night. Surprised me when he vowed that my lips would be the only ones he'd ever kiss. Always, just when I thought I had all the rules figured out, he'd go and change the game by doing something so incredibly amazing like remembering the first meal I'd ever made him.

"It's not bad." My eyes flew to him, narrowing slightly in amused disbelief at the words, and he cleared his throat. "The chicken, I mean."

The little smirk he was currently sporting was sufficient evidence, in my opinion, that the chicken was _not _all he was talking about, but I let it go. "It's Debbie's recipe."

He nodded. "Makes sense. After the failed attempt to teach her own son how to cook, she had to try saving some pour soul from starvation," he rolled his eyes. "Did Michael ever tell you about the time he caught his toaster on fire?"

"No," I laughed.

And from there, he launched into a highly amusing story involving a teenage Michael, a flaming toaster, and a very pissed off Deb. I hadn't laughed so hard in a long, long while, and even despite the residual ache in my stomach and ribs, it felt good, as though a weight were being siphoned from my shoulders. I filed away a mental note to make a passing comment to Michael concerning the toaster story the next time I saw him.

"We are going back to Deb's next weekend, right?" I asked as our laughter finally died down. "Provided there are no flammable toasters in the house?"

He snorted, and was forced to gulp down half a glass of water before he was able to speak again. I could feel the delirious edge of our laughter-induced buzz fading rapidly, especially at the mention of Deb's, but I didn't want to let it go just yet. I could easily see these dinners at her place becoming a recurring routine—or rather a return to that recurring routine. And while I relished the company of my friends once again, there was still some of that old doubt lingering at the edges of my mind, try as I might to suppress it.

Or maybe it was new doubt, brought on by this thing with Brian, this frustration inside me at being so close and so far away from what I wanted most. I wanted him, I wanted things to be the way they used to be, I _ached _for that...and yet I couldn't have it. I wanted to go to Debbie's every weekend and laugh and joke and feel happy surrounded by all my friends. I had done it twice, but who was to say there wouldn't be some setback? Who was to say I wasn't really fucked up enough to actually lose what I already had? It was irrational and it didn't make sense. Being with Brian and hanging out with my friends were two completely different concepts. I just—I felt like...well, a failure. Like I was just too weak, too scared, too broken. Sometimes that feeling could just get so overwhelming that it all began to feel hopeless.

"Definitely," he promised me. I let the vow sink in, nodding.

Suddenly, we were interrupted by the insistent ringing of his cell phone, clattering across the computer desk where he'd left it after his earlier conversation. I met his eyes across the table, but he dropped them quickly, his entire demeanor shifting on the spot. His expression went carefully neutral, his eyes slipping behind that fucking impenetrable shield that I hated so much.

"You going to get that?"

"Let it go to voicemail." He shrugged indifferently.

I frowned. "Are you... I mean, is everything...really okay, Brian?"

"Okay?"

I swallowed thickly, fidgeting with my fork. "Yeah. At...at work, and everything? I mean, you've been on the phone a lot lately..."

He shook his head and stabbed another piece of chicken. "Everything's fine. Like I said, there was a minor crisis with this new account. But we're taking care of it."

He spoke as if I didn't know he was lying. As if I could not notice. But how could I miss it, knowing him the way I did?

"Oh," I said, though I was becoming increasingly suspicious about even the existence of this particular account. If it was this important, he would have mentioned it before now, wouldn't he have? But why the fuck would he lie? Brian didn't lie. He favored brutal honesty far too much to have any patience for tactful untruths.

I didn't know why, and I didn't know what he was hiding, but I was certain that he definitely _was _lying. But if, by whatever fucked up justification he was feeding himself, he had decided that I was better off not knowing, then there really was nothing I could do about it. If he didn't want me to know, he certainly wouldn't be telling me. And did it matter? Whatever it was, it was most likely something trivial that he was, like he'd told me, taking care of just fine. Maybe it really was about work. Some client or coworker.

Okay, that was bullshit. Even if it was about work, there was no reason—at least, no _good _reason—for him not to tell me. Shit, what if he was in trouble of some sort again? Maybe he really was telling the truth about it concerning Vanguard. What if all those days he'd been taking off had become a problem for his boss? He sure as hell wouldn't want me knowing about that, worrying for him and feeling guilty as hell the way he knew I would.

But what could I do? I'd pleaded, ordered, and reasoned with him, to no avail. The past was the past, I supposed, but he still insisted on coming with me every Monday to therapy, and staying home the rest of the day, in case I needed him. I could admit to feeling a bit more—vulnerable, I supposed—after the hour spent in Kathy's office, but that didn't mean he needed to take the whole fucking day off to be with me.

It had finally happened. All my shit, my problems, my insecurities, my fucked up life had gotten in the way of his. But Brian Kinney did what he wanted, how the hell was I going to convince him to fucking put himself first for once? Sure, he pulled the whole _I don't give a crap_ routine sometimes—he had since I'd known him with very few exceptions—but when it came down to it, he'd sacrifice everything in a second for someone he cared about. I'd once told him that I loved that he'd do anything for me. Now, I wished it wasn't so painfully true. I didn't want this. I sure as hell had never wanted to drag him down with me.

I didn't mention the phone calls for the rest of the evening. He spent the night alternating between the computer and the phone, stopping only to set out a sleeping pill for me. I shuddered when I remembered the previous night's terror, waking up out in the living room, scared and confused. I had less than no desire to repeat that experience again any time soon, so I swallowed my pill, and eventually fell asleep sketching on the couch.

~.~

When I awoke the next day, it was to find that I was somehow snuggled beneath the duvet on my side of the bed. Dimly, it registered that something didn't feel quite right, but I didn't feel like opening my eyes to check what it was. I tried anyway, then shut them again quickly when the light hurt too much.

"Morning, Sunshine."

They fluttered open again anyway, however, at the pleasant surprise that was Brian's voice. I ran a hand over my face, letting it block out the blaze of the morning sun.

"Did I fall asleep?" I mumbled, realizing suddenly that I was still in the same clothes I'd worn yesterday. I had no memory of ever crawling into bed last night, and I highly doubted I'd have done it in jeans, anyway. Really, they were the most comfortable pair of blue jeans I'd ever owned, but wearing them in bed like this, they felt much too tight and awkward.

"Yeah," Brian answered, from somewhere to my right. Slowly, I lowered my hand from my eyes, letting them adjust to the light. It was official: whoever the fuck had invented mornings must have been blind. "I left everything on...I wasn't sure if—I thought you'd be more comfortable," he said sheepishly.

In other words, he'd been afraid I'd freak out if I woke up in bed naked after he'd stripped me of my clothes. There had been a time when he wouldn't have hesitated to tear them off and curl up around me, arms draped over my waist and breath tickling the back of my neck. I sighed. I really did appreciate his thoughtfulness. Though these weren't the most comfortable clothes to sleep in, I had to admit, I probably wouldn't have enjoyed the vulnerability that came with waking up completely naked and open and so—bare—even next to Brian. The last time someone had done something like that, torn off my clothes without my explicit consent, had been....

"No...I mean, yeah...thanks. I'm glad you did," I told him. A familiar sort of emptiness stole over his expression. Almost the same look he'd gotten yesterday when I'd asked him about those phone calls. It was the one he employed to hide his pain or concern or whatever human emotion he didn't want to show. In this case: Pain. Nostalgia. It hurt me beyond reason to know that I was the one responsible for putting that look there now. It just felt so terrifying to be with him, and yet so wrong _not _to be with him.... It was like we both were still searching for the past only to be disappointed by the future.

"Come here." His tone was soft, almost a whisper, and almost sultry in that simple request. I blinked in surprise, but slid closer to him, my jeans moving awkwardly between the sheets. I just barely had time to appreciate how beautiful he looked with his hair mussed and with lingering sleep clouding his eyes, before he kissed me. Nothing too much—no passionate, searing lip-lock that made my insides turn to mush. Well, they sort of did anyway, just from the way it felt to have his lips tingling against mine. But it was nothing like Friday night, and maybe that was okay. Not everything had to be a challenge, a game of risk. After all, this alone, right here, used to be my favorite part of waking up. I'd forgotten how wonderful it felt to just lay here and have him kiss me and kiss him back and start my entire day off with Brian, Brian,_ Brian. _Even if, back then, it always used to amount to more.

"What was that for?" I asked as he pulled away.

He surveyed at me for a moment, bathing me in contemplative hazel, then shrugged. "Because we can."

And before my still sleep-and-Brian muddled brain could really understand the full meaning of this, he had disappeared into the bathroom and started the water for a shower.

Yes. Yes we could.

~.~

"You know..." I began, glancing over at him as he alternated between keeping his eyes on the road and darting them down to the radio. "You could always...you could go into work. Once we're done with Kathy, I mean."

He didn't even look at me, but his fingers tightened noticeably around the steering wheel as he navigated through static and commercials to find his favorite station.

"You could drop me off at Daphne's...I'm sure she wouldn't mind," I continued, as though I hadn't noticed.

"I told you before,it's fine, Justin." His tone was crisp with a note of finality, so naturally, I took the liberty of ignoring that as well.

"What about those fucking phone calls all weekend, then?" I demanded, a hint of aggravation in my voice. "Your 'work emergencies'?"

His expression hardened. "Don't worry about it, all right?" he asked tightly. "It's my business. I can take care of it."

I shook my head in disbelief, glaring out my window. Fine. If he wanted to get his ass fired, then so be it. Okay, so I really didn't know for sure what was going on...that could be just me, being dramatic. But what if they really did fire him? Then what?

Neither of us said a word the rest of the way there. Out in the waiting area at the office, another thought occurred to me, one that didn't appease my concern in the slightest. What if this went beyond simply omitting information? What if the whole thing was a full-on lie?

But, if that was true, if it had nothing to do with Vanguard...then what was going on?

~.~

Within minutes, my name had been called and we were back in Kathy's office on that tiny reddish couch, a Kleenex in my left hand and Brian's fingers in my right, our spat already forgotten. I couldn't stay irritated with him, not when I needed him so fucking much. Whatever was going on, Brian would figure out a way to handle it. He always did, but I couldn't do this with Kathy if I didn't have him.

"So, how has your medication been working, Justin?" she asked almost immediately that morning, after the usual question concerning my 'mood evaluation scale' in my therapy log. All in all, it had been a fairly good week.

"The sleeping pills have been good," I told her honestly. I absolutely relished the feeling of falling asleep at night, and waking up the next morning, refreshed and at ease. No three-in-the-morning tears, no stressful nightmares to write about in my log. Just blissful oblivion. Well, except for Saturday night, but that had been the sole exception.

"No nightmares to speak of?" she prompted, scribbling something on her clipboard. "No side-effects?"

"No, and no." Except for feeling generally less exhausted, I didn't feel any different. Nothing that could be considered a side-effect.

"Good," she murmured happily. "And I'm assuming there's been nothing from the antidepressants? No change?"

I shook my head, my stomach flipping at the reminder that I was actually on fucking happy pills now.

She nodded. "That's to be expected. You've only been taking them a week. If you do start having side-effects though, I want you to tell me. A lot of times, they can be taken care of just by adjusting the dosage. Some of them are clear side-effects... headaches, skin rashes, nausea... but some of them are less noticeable."

"Like what?" Brian spoke up, his voice taut, as though he really didn't want to know the answer.

"Well, there's loss of appetite," Kathy informed us. "I know you've said you've suffered from it in the last few months anyway, so that's something you'll need to be particularly wary of. Another is loss of sexual craving, in some cases."

I felt my face going red, though I tried to will my cheeks not to burn in shame. If there was anything I was more ashamed of than having _It _happen in the first place, it was this. It was not being able to get over it. It was not being able to do fucking _anything _to get past it_._ Brian and I used to not be able to go a single fucking day without sex, and I hadn't even gotten hard in over three months. And now I had medicine that could possibly make it even more difficult. Great.

"And, that'll..." I muttered, staring at the single window in the room as though wishing I could soar right out it. "You said before...that'll come back, right? I mean, if the medicine doesn't...?"

That was what they'd been saying. Kathy, Brian...the hopeful little whisper in the back of my head that refused to be stomped out completely. That it would all come back to me, that I'd have it all again one day. That I'd be able to touch Brian, show him how much I loved him, kiss him and touch him and let him touch me back. I tried to imagine it, tried to picture the day it would happen. It was highly unlikely that I'd just wake up one morning and it would all be okay again. But maybe I'd be kissing Brian and it would all just....

"In time, Justin," said Kathy gently, her face registering none of the embarrassment and discomfort as mine. Next to me, I felt Brian shift, his hand squeezing mine in silent support. Much to my intense chagrin, I felt the beginnings of tears in my eyes.

It had never gone away, that little voice whispering that I'd better give him something and soon, before I lost him. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that it didn't matter, at least not right now. It didn't matter that I couldn't suck him or let him fuck me or do much of anything besides kiss him, and sometimes not even that. He loved me. He obviously wanted me around for something other than sex, or I'd be gone by now. But it felt so strange, so foreign, to not be able to touch him like I used to. It had always felt so natural, so right to be with him, and now, there was just nothing. That sexual spark we'd always had had just fizzled out and died, at least on my end. I'd give anything to have it back, anything just to be able to let him do what he wanted. But I couldn't even do that. It wasn't just that I didn't _want _to have sex, it was that I _couldn't._

Sometimes, I tried to talk myself into it. Tried to tell myself that it was just Brian. Just Brian, who loved me, who had fucked me more times than I cared to count. He would never hurt me...never, as long as we lived, do anything against my will. Beneath Brian had always been my favorite place in the world, his warm weight on top of me, talented hands and a skilled tongue and lips assuring mine, hazel eyes telling me everything I'd ever need to know. Telling me that he loved me, that he wanted me, that what was about to happen would be the most wonderfully intense experience of my life, and he never disappointed. It was safe. Familiar. It was nothing like that night, nothing like them.

And none of that mattered in the least.

It really didn't. It never mattered that I would be perfectly safe or that Brian would take things slow or that it had been over three months or that none of it would be anything like that night...none of it mattered because it was still sex, and I couldn't do it. _They _wouldn't let me. _It _wouldn't let me.

Kathy was talking again, and I nodded miserably at whatever she was saying, my eyes still at the window, hoping that neither of them could tell that I was about five seconds away from crying.

"With time, and your continued sessions with me, and even more so, your own determination, there's a good chance it'll happen one day, Justin," she said.

One day, someday, in time. Of course. She'd said it before. Brian had said it before. Someday. Well, what about _right now? _What about this moment, this second? What about what I wanted _today? _

"However, it's important that you make sure you're comfortable with whatever is going on," she said, an almost stern edge to her voice. "You need to let your sexual appetite return on its own, and not push yourself into anything you're not ready for."

Once again, I just nodded. She'd told me this before, too, during our last sex discussion. "So...I'm just supposed to wait around until something happens?" I clarified. It didn't sound like a particularly satisfying way to make things happen, but I was beginning to honestly wonder if they were right, and it really was the only way. What else could I do? I knew perfectly well what happened when I forgot where I was and who I was with. Was there even another way around it?

"Well, there are some things you could do to sort of—reacquaint yourself—with the idea of sex. Things that would help you to start relaxing and letting yourself be touched again," Kathy said. "There are any number of things you could try. Little everyday things...even things that you used to do with each other that you stopped doing. Just basically anything small that would help you start growing comfortable with the physical aspect of your relationship."

I listened while she went through ideas. Fully or partly-clothed showers. Massages. Anything I was comfortable with, she stressed. If she wasn't a professional, I'd wonder how she managed to keep all trace of awkwardness out of her voice and off her face, while mine was flushed with embarrassment from the fact that this conversation was even a necessity. Except for right after the bashing, we had never once had a problem with the 'physical aspect of our relationship.' I didn't think there was one fag in Babylon, including our friends, that hadn't seen us fucking at least once. We used to be practically infamous for our insatiable appetite for each other, and now it almost felt like I was the same scared little virgin I'd been that first night with him. Only this time, the fear was for an entirely different reason. It was more. Real. Alive inside me.

What if even Brian couldn't rescue me from its grasp?

~.~

"So." After a solid ten minutes in the jeep with neither of us saying a word, it appeared he'd had enough.

"So?" I asked, somewhat aggressively, when Brian didn't complete the thought. He sighed, apparently realizing by my tone that the direction this conversation was already taking wasn't somewhere he had particularly wished or intended.

"About what Kathy said..." he continued cautiously.

"Which part?"

He hesitated. "What she said... what she said we could try," he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Do you think...would you want to?"

I didn't answer, watching cars fly by outside my window in variously colored blurs. I wanted to say something, I could hear that little voice in my head screaming at me to open my mouth and say _yes, __Brian, I want to, I always want you..._but I couldn't. I wasn't sure if I meant that—wasn't sure about much of anything—and while I was in such a state of uncertainty, I decided it would be best to say nothing at all.

I saw him nod a little out of the corner of my eye, as though accepting that I wasn't going to answer. For some reason, this irritated me.

"What, you want to fuck me?" I asked, my tone quiet but bitter. I wasn't sure where the frustration was coming from, or why I was directing it at him, but I could feel a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes and being angry at him was a lot simpler than actually trying to deal with it all. What had I been expecting? That after kissing him like that this weekend, Kathy would tell me, _oh, you're fine now, go __ahead and have sex. _"Is that it?

I could almost sense his distaste with the conversation building with each word I spoke, growing and transforming into something almost alive in the air between us. Choking us. Suffocating us. This restless frustration was killing us both.

"You know that's not what I meant," he said sharply. "Don't turn this into something it isn't."

"And what is it, exactly?" I snapped.

He sighed. "It's me, asking if you want to take your therapist's suggestion, and take a step towards what you said _your _goal was. It's your decision what you want to do, so stop trying to turn it around and make me into some asshole who only wants to fuck you, because we both know damn well that's not what I was asking."

Well. That shut me up. I turned to glare out the window, trying to hold onto some of my last vestiges of anger and frustration, but they were fading fast.

He was right. I knew he was right...when was he ever not? It wasn't fair to turn this around on him, when all he was asking was if I wanted to take a step forward for myself. And that was what I had committed myself to doing, wasn't it? Fighting. Surviving. Getting through this.

"Sorry."

He didn't answer, but let out a deep breath, his eyes focused purposefully on the road.

"Look, it's not...it's not_ you." _It wasn't him I was afraid of. It had nothing to do with him personally. It was just _sex. _It was just _them. _They had_ become _sex for me, and sometimes it was just so hard to look past that anymore. Too impossibly difficult to distinguish that night from now.

None of this, however, warranted me getting pissy and taking it out on him. He was trying his best to help me the only way he knew how. This wasn't about fucking, and I knew it. It hadn't been just about fucking for a long, long time for him. No, it was about healing. It was about taking back what was ours.

I glanced over at Brian to catch him nodding. "I know," he said simply. His voice had reverted straight back to being gentle and compassionate. He always seemed to know just when to do that. When to push me into opening up or breaking down or letting him in. He always knew just what I needed to hear, right when I needed to hear it most.

"I just...don't know if—I don't know what I can do, or what I can't..."

"That's the whole point of this," he interrupted me. "Look, all Kathy wants...all _I _want...is for you to be able to enjoy it again. For your sake. This is about helping you."

I fidgeted with my sleeve, picking at the threads. "I know."

"We'll just...take it slow, see what you're okay with, or what you're not okay with...see what happens."

"I don't _want _to just wait and see what happens," I said through clenched teeth. "You and Kathy...you just—have all the fucking patience in the world. All that _it'll happen someday _shit...I don't _want _just someday, Brian." I was so sick of this. So tired of going in circles with Kathy, with Brian, with my own fucking mind. Or maybe we weren't. Maybe I was only frustrated because they weren't telling me what I wanted to hear. There were no quick-fixes, as I was still in the process of realizing. There was no easy way out. Maybe they were right. Maybe time was all that could fix this.

"I know you don't," said Brian, coming to a stop in a parking space outside his building. I hadn't even realized we were almost home. "But just because we're not where you want to be...it doesn't mean we can't have anything. And it doesn't mean we won't get there someday, eventually. It just means it's what we have for now."

"I'm...I mean, I can kiss you," I told him, though it felt like grasping at straws. "That's a good thing, right? And I can have you in the room with me when I'm the shower...."

"See? You've made progress," Brian noted, sounding just a little like Kathy. Patient and relentlessly optimistic, which sure as hell was not the Brian I knew. Maybe therapy was having an effect on him, too. "You need to tell me what you're okay with, and what you want, Justin, so I can help you," he finished.

I absorbed what he was saying, taking it in and turning it around and around inside my brain. What if I didn't know what I wanted? What if I wasn't sure what I could handle and what I couldn't? What if part of me was screaming that it wanted everything back the way it used to be, but the other half was falling to pieces at every reminder that it never would be that way again?

"I..." My words faltered and died on my tongue. I wasn't sure what Brian's reaction would be to hearing them, but when I glanced over at the driver's seat, he was waiting expectantly for me to finish. "I miss you."

I'd mumbled the words, half-hoping that he wouldn't hear, but I knew he did. His expression softened, and he averted his gaze to the steering wheel.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "You too."

"Are things—they're never going to be like...like before. Are they?" My voice shook, trembling under the weight of unshed tears. But I refused to let them fall.

He considered me seriously, haunted hazel against tearful blue. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know if it'll be the same, or how long it's going to take. I...I don't know."

I swallowed the lump in my throat before forcing myself to voice one of my deepest fears. The type that cut me deep, just a little too close to the heart. "And what if...we're always waiting?"

His eyes were back on the steering wheel, his fingers clenched around the edge of it. He sighed, his forehead creasing as he stared at it. There were no tears in his eyes that I could see, but he closed them, swallowing hard, as though trying to fight them back anyway. "What do you want, Justin?" he demanded.

"The fucking truth."

"Fine," he said grimly. "The truth...the reality is, it might not happen for a while. Maybe never again. The fucking truth is that it might not be the same. It could be months, it could be years. We could always be waiting."

A week ago—fuck, a day ago—this would have reduced me to tears. But I think I needed it, to hear it from him, to know that I wasn't alone in my fears.

"The truth..." he broke off, pressing his lips together as he gathered his bearings. "Is that if or when it happens—whenever it happens—we'll wait as long as we have to. It's...it's only time, Sunshine."

For days, those words would echo inside my head. _It's only time. _


	24. Promise

**~. Brian .~**

_I was alone, as far as I could tell. Where exactly I was that was so deserted, I wasn't sure just yet, but I knew instinctively that I had been there before. It was dark, with rows of cars creating isles up and down the spacious lair. _

_Suddenly, a trill of laughter broke the eerie, surrounding silence. I stood there, waiting and watching, as a radiant young blond rounded a nearby car and came into view. He was, simply put, beautiful; bright and smiling and joyful. And suddenly the darkness didn't matter; it was impossible, but he was actually fucking _glowing,_ celestial rays of light pooling around my feet, over the curves of the cars, lighting up the shadows like the sun. _

"_Justin!" I called out. But he was too far away, and even though I stumbled forward in an effort to reach him, he was moving too quickly, disappearing around the side of another car. "Justin!" _

_I quickened my pace, desperate to reach him. I didn't know why, but it was suddenly imperative that I did. So I hurried forward, following the distinct glow, like sunlight, around bends, behind cars, through the maze that I eventually realized made up a parking garage. _

_And suddenly, I knew I had to_ run._ I had no idea know where this explosive sense of urgency had come from, but I had no time to question it. I had to fucking _move...

"_Justin!" I gasped. "Justin, please!" _

_Another distant laugh, and that ethereal light grew brighter. Closer. I pressed myself on, begged my legs to carry me faster, carry me to him, before it was too late, and whatever I was so inexplicably afraid of happened._

_And then, without warning, everything went dark. For one terrifying moment, it was silent except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. Unnaturally silent...._

"_Brian?" Small. Pleading. Terrified. Barely a whimper. _

"_Justin?" I demanded, throwing my hands out in front of me blindly. "Justin, where are you?"_

"_Please..." came his voice again, wavering in the darkness. "Please, Brian..."_

"_I'll help you," I promised. "I'll help you. Just tell me where you are. I can't see..." And suddenly I realized what had happened. Why it was so dark, so cold, so empty. Why the light in my world had gone out. _

_Justin had stopped smiling. This wasn't fun anymore. This wasn't a game. Something had gone terribly wrong. _

"_Brian,_ please..."_ he called again, his voice rising in fear. "Please, help me!"_

"_I will," I swore blindly. "I will. I will, I promise. Just tell me..."_

_Laughter. Nothing like the carefree, gentle chuckle that had tumbled from Justin's lips just minutes before. No, this was different...this was cold, merciless laughter...inhuman laughter...._

"_Brian!" Sharper now. Desperate. _

"_Justin...I'm trying...." I threw myself forward in the direction of his voice, only to slam—hard—into cool metal. Bars, I realized. Even in the darkness, I recognized it for what it was: a cell. Caged like an animal, while feet away, Justin suffered in the hands of some unknown menace that I could sense more than see. _

"_Brian, please," he begged again. "Please...why won't you help me?"_

_It felt like fire in my chest to hear those words. Didn't he know I'd do anything for him? Didn't he know my heart was racing, that I was scared beyond anything I'd ever known? Didn't he know I was giving everything I had into figuring a way out of this?_

"_I'm trying. Fuck, I'm trying," I muttered, almost to myself. The only response I received was more cold, cruel laughter. _

"_Leave us the fuck alone!" I yelled, flooded with rage, striking out at the bars of my cage, kicking and shaking them until I was sure they were going to break, but they never did. _

"_If you hurt him, I swear I'll kill you." My whispered threat was venomous, coiling around the bars of my cell like a snake, ready to pounce. Ultimately, the words were useless, locked as I was inside this prison. Useless rage with no outlet. Up until then, I hadn't noticed, but the darkness seemed to be growing thicker, somehow, smothering me, choking me. _

"_Brian!" But his voice was faint, and suddenly I couldn't even feel the bars of the cage beneath my fingertips, though I was certain I wasn't free. If I was, I should have been able to fucking _move,_ and yet I couldn't stir a single Goddamn muscle in my body to save him. Feet away, he was in pain...feet away, someone was hurting him...and I couldn't do a thing about it. _

"_Brian!" Another whimper, even fainter this time. The last thing I heard above that vicious laughter was a sickeningly familiar crack out of the shadows, and the sound of my own pleading screams...._

I awoke with a start and a curse on my lips. What the_ fucking hell...?_ I glanced instinctively to my left, and let out a sigh of relief. Blond and peaceful and perfect. And sleeping. Actually, it didn't even look as if he'd moved all night. Or, wait...was it morning?

I glanced at the clock. It was well after three. What the fuck had that been all about? I was still just asleep enough to remember some of the finer points of my ridiculous dream, though they were quickly slipping away from me. There'd been, what, a parking garage? So it had something to do with the bashing, maybe? The last thing I remembered was a very loud, nauseating _crack...._

Justin may have been the one tossing and turning most nights, waking up screaming and crying and all of the terrible things that went along with his nightmares, but it wasn't as though I didn't have them on occasion, too. I may not have physically gone through the things Justin had, but it sure as hell hurt enough anyway. That was the thing about caring for someone; their pain became your pain. His had become mine, so of course I had nightmares about the things we had gone through together. Of course these things scared the shit out of me, too, waking me up in a cold sweat and keeping me awake for hours in the form of restless unease. These things had a sort of ripple effect. They may have started with him, but they ended up affecting everyone around him.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to shake off the lingering anxiety the dream had left me with. I couldn't even really remember much about it now, other than those few details I'd been left with when I'd woken. I just remembered that I'd been scared, gripped with some terror that I couldn't even explain. And all I knew for sure, other than that utterly familiar _crack, _was that it had something to do with Justin.

Though I doubted anything short of a nuclear explosion in our own living room could have woken him from his medically induced sleep, I was careful and quiet as I slid from my side of the bed and headed for the kitchen. The floor felt cool on my bare feet, something slightly uncomfortable to jar me from my daze of anxiety.

I desperately craved a quick shot of something alcoholic, but all I kept in the loft these days was beer, and I promptly decided against that. I settled for a glass of water, gulping down a glass like a man dying of thirst, and leaned over the counter, my shoulders hunched.

Well, at least his nights were peaceful.

If it was a choice between him and me, I was glad that he, at least, could finally enjoy the relief of sleep. It had been almost...fuck, nearly four months since it had happened. Wait, not _it. _Kathy was always telling us to say the word, to call it what it was instead of burying it, trying to hide it. It was best if we were open with our pain, she said, than if we tried to shove it down and push it away, like he'd done for so long. She especially encouraged me to help him with things like that—getting him to talk when he didn't feel like talking, getting him to open up—and that included being able to call 'it' by name.

So, it had been nearly four months since Justin was raped.

In some ways, it seemed far, far longer than four months. Day by day, minute by minute...it seemed to drag us on through this haze of fear and pain. We'd been walking around with this heaviness on our shoulders for nearly four entire months now.

Still, in other ways...it didn't seem that long at all. We'd been going to therapy, and attending family dinners—he'd been doing so much better lately, that it simultaneously seemed to fly by. Just in this last month, he'd come so far. Far enough that I trusted him to use our razor on his own, even if I was tense and watching the clock every time he shut himself inside the bathroom.

I did wonder if some of those protective urges were really just out of habit by now...not liking to let him use the razor alone, not leaving his medication out. Of course it scared me, of course I still wanted to keep him safe. But how long was I planning on keeping up this prison guard routine?

I still didn't want him in the loft alone all day. Especially not if I thought he would spend it dwelling on things, and crying, and refusing to eat anything. And he did have those days, the kind where he laid on the couch and did nothing, or the kind where he spent entire afternoons sketching Gary and the others in his gray sketchbook.

But he did seem to be generally—happier, I supposed—lately. He had his bad days, his bad moments, but then there were those days that were neither exceptionally good nor especially bad, but that were just...normal. Perfectly normal, everyday moments during which he smiled more, and sketched some of his favorite subjects. There were instances where things were just so easy and lighthearted that it was almost like it never even happened, when we were just talking like we used to, teasing or chatting over stupid shit like TV shows or my work or the crappy weather.

Finally having calmed my nerves, I headed back to bed and slid beneath the covers. I hesitated only a moment before scooting over to his side, trying not to jostle it too much, and slipping my arms around him. Burying my face in his neck, I looped my leg over his and just held on, as though afraid he'd fall away if I let him go.

I would like to have pretended that I only wanted to hold Justin to keep him safe, to protect him...that it was all for his sake. But the twat was sleeping, and therefore that made very little sense, even to my currently anxious and exhaustion-scrambled brain. In the privacy of my own mind, I could admit the truth. Whatever facade of strength I tried to present to him, Justin wasn't the only one who needed comfort sometimes, who needed the feeling of a familiar body held close to feel safe. Here like this, in the almost surreal fragility of the night, I could believe that both of us really were safe and sound. That holding on and never letting go of the slumbering body in my arms was enough to protect us both from the world forever.

**~. Justin .~**

I awoke to sunlight glowing behind my closed eyelids and a sensation of complete confinement.

Though my first reaction would typically have been panic, I somehow instinctively knew it was Brian. Maybe it was the familiar way he'd buried his head between my neck and shoulder, or maybe it was the scent of his soap as I inhaled it from all around me, but whatever it was, it kept me calm. Relaxed, even, huddled within this little cocoon of blankets and him. I wasn't entirely sure how I was going to escape the dead weight of his arm over me, but the alarm wasn't going off yet, so it didn't really matter at the moment. I could enjoy this.

He woke up a few minutes later. I knew when he did, because he started rubbing little circles into my arm with his thumb and nuzzling the back of my neck. "We should get up," he muttered into my ear, but he didn't loosen his grip on me.

"In a minute," I said. It was nice, just laying here like this. It reminded me of Saturday mornings when I was a kid, waking up way earlier than I had to and just laying in bed for an hour, the sunlight streaming in through my window and warming my face, drifting in and out of sleep.

Eventually, though, we really did have to get up. As much as I would have liked to lay in bed all day with him, he absolutely refused to ignore the alarm and be late for work. We set about our morning routines; he spent a ludicrous amount of time on his hair, and then even more time picking out one of his immaculate Armani suits, while I did twice as much in half the time. While he struggled to choose from three seemingly identical pairs of Gucci shoes, I made us some toast, and brought him a piece in the bedroom while he sifted through ties.

"Extra butter, minimal jelly," I said, handing him his breakfast. He took it right out of my hand with his teeth, grinning at me from around the slice of toast before turning back around to his collection of over-expensive ties.

"Wear the blue one," I suggested, wiping my hands, covered in crumbs, on my pants before reaching out to pull his silky blue Armani tie from the closet. "It looks good on you." Well, okay, everything did, as a general rule of thumb. But I'd always had a thing for this tie on him.

I smiled when he apparently agreed, and moved on to belts. It was a good thing he had never joined the military. Or a private school. I could just see him spending an hour every morning searching through identical ties and jackets and pants trying to find the 'right' look. Which was essentially what he was doing now. Brian was one of those people that, when they saw a pair of shoes in 'black,' and one in 'jet black,' he'd have to get both, with the result that he now had about half a dozen pairs of shoes that looked exactly the same. "Only to the untrained eye, Sunshine,"he would say when I pointed this out.

Fucking label queen.

"Wear this one," I told him, selecting a thin leather belt from the closet. Without waiting for an answer, I slid the end of it into his belt loop, then through the next, pressing myself close to him and snaking my arms around his waist to thread it through the back loops.

He had taken his toast out of his mouth, and was standing perfectly still. It was like some sort of magnetic attraction keeping our gazes locked and my body against his, with neither of us wanting to break it. He had that look in his eyes, that rare look of vulnerability, of sweetness. The look that reminded me of our Pride festival dance, swaying together to the music, glowing with the knowledge that this time, he'd come after _me _instead of the other way around. It was that same sort of look now, that private smile, gentle and proud and warm and—dare I say it—loving.

Finally, I tore my eyes away from his and focused on his belt again, fingers fumbling with the buckle as I fastened it.

"There," I said, leaning back and running my hands over his chest, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of his suit. "Perfect."

~.~

"You're in a good mood today," Daphne observed as I followed her inside the set of double doors into her apartment building, turning to look over my shoulder to watch Brian drive off. I shrugged. Normally, I might have told her what had me in such an unusual state of mind, but I wasn't exactly sure myself today. A combination of things, I supposed. I'd slept well, woken with Brian's arms around me, and generally had a good start to my morning. Plus, as it was Tuesday, there was almost an entire week to go before I had to set foot back in Kathy's office. That was always a mood booster.

"So..." Daphne continued, her voice echoing in the stairwell as we climbed the necessary flights of stairs to her floor. I made a mental note to ask her later when the elevator was getting fixed. "How've you been?

It was a routine question of hers, as well as my mother's. At first, I'd hated it, hated being questioned about my miserable, pathetic existence. How the fuck did they think I was doing? What did they expect? But after a while, I had begun to see it for what it was: they cared. They were just concerned for me, just wanted to stay updated with my life. And when I'd started being able to give somewhat positive answers, I found that I began to mind the question less and less.

"Actually...not bad." I said, weighing my words carefully. "I've been...I've been good."

Okay, so I'd had a pathetic breakdown in the bathroom on Friday, but that had followed the most amazing experience with Brian that I'd had in a long time. And I'd gotten pissy yesterday after therapy, but I'd woken with his arms around me this morning. It was like the good things were finally starting to even out with the bad, instead of it being a case of negative-majority rules.

We had finally arrived at the right floor, and she began fishing in her pocket for her key. "You know, I think that's the first time I've heard you say that," she mused.

I stood back as she fumbled with the lock. There was a _click, _and she pushed the door open, gesturing for me to enter. I allowed a small half-smile to tug at my lips as I realized she was right.

"It's the first time it's been true."

She looked at me, an unidentifiable expression on her face.

"What?"

She shrugged, averting her eyes, and set her keys on her counter. "Nothing. I'm just..." I waited while she made a show of checking her machine for messages, as if she'd been gone from the apartment for hours rather than minutes, and fidgeted with a stray nickel from a pile of change on the counter. "I'm really fucking proud of you, Justin," she said awkwardly, but sincerity leaked from her voice.

"I didn't do anything, Daph," I said, after a moment during which she continued to drum the nickel against her chipped counter top.

She finally raised her gaze to meet mine. "Are you kidding? You...well you're—kind of amazing, Justin," she said, huffing out an awkward half-laugh.

I snorted.

"I mean it!" she insisted. "You've been through more shit than anyone I know, and you're...well, you're _here. _And you're still, like...you're still you, somehow. You know?"

She was avoiding my eyes again, trying to shake off the sincere discomfort brought on by the heartfelt confession of pride.

Meanwhile, all I could do was look at her. She was...she was serious. She was actually proud of me. Proud of me for...surviving? Was I a survivor? Had that even been by choice?

And was I still me? I couldn't even...I didn't even know what to say to that. The idea that I hadn't lost that most inherent piece of me, that there was still a part of the old Justin inside that she could see...I could literally feel a lump rising in my throat, and quickly followed her example, dropping my eyes to her floor.

"Most people would have...broken down, Justin. After the bashing...and then this...." she continued.

"It's not like I'm some kind of shining example of strength, Daphne," I said. It meant more than words could express that she thought these things about me, but really, I wasn't nearly as together and well off as she seemed to think. "It's not like it's been easy. Or that I haven't broken down at all, or...it's not like that. If it wasn't for you and my mom and Brian...I don't know what I would have done."

Well, that wasn't entirely true. I knew perfectly well what would've most likely become of me...knew that Hobbes's work would have been finished for him. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have come this far.

She nodded. "But still, it takes a lot to get through something like this, Justin. You don't give yourself enough credit."

I shook my head. I didn't deserve to hear this. I didn't deserve to be commended for getting through something that I wouldn't have even survived without serious intervention. If it hadn't been for Brian monitoring my every move...if he hadn't come after me that night on the roof....

"You give me too much. Look, if it wasn't for Brian, I—" I stopped short, chastising myself inwardly.

"What?" she asked. But how could I tell her? How could I tell my best friend in the world that if it weren't for my boyfriend, I wouldn't even be here right now? How could I tell her about one of the two biggest fucking mistakes I'd ever made? It was bad enough that I'd hurt her with the first, that night, stumbling in at three in the morning in a haze of agony and fear. So...why? Why would I hurt her with something that had no bearing on the present? It was over now. In the past. "What about Brian?"

I cast my mind around for something else to say, some miraculous save. "If it wasn't for Brian, I don't know how I would have dealt with it all. He's been so fucking amazing," I admitted. There. That was far from a lie.

"It's because he loves you," she said seriously.

I nodded, and couldn't help but add, "So he says."

Now I had her attention, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as they snapped to mine. _"What?!"_

"He said...he told me he loves me," I shrugged. And try as I might, I couldn't stop the tiny smile from forming on my face any more than I could halt the little bubble of private happiness welling up inside my chest.

"No fucking _way!"_ She was grinning, too, all traces of awkwardness apparently forgotten in favor of this new bombshell. "For real? When?"

"A couple times."

"A _couple times? _Why the fuck didn't you tell me? How did he say it? Was it like, all quiet and romantic? Or all meaningful and serious? Did he kiss you afterwards? Did you say it, too?"

And _that _was why Daphne Chanders was my best friend.

**~. Brian .~**

"Hello?" I snatched up my vibrating cell from my desk, flipping it open and pressing it to my ear in one fluid motion, not even bothering to check the caller ID.

"Hey, Brian. It's me."

I realized suddenly that I wasn't breathing, and forced the stale air from my lungs, sucking in a fresh breath that left me dizzy. "Oh." I leaned over my desk on my elbows, the restless tension draining from my shoulders.

"Nice to hear from you, too."

"Sorry, Mikey," I said, rubbing my temple wearily. "I've been expecting a call."

"I bet I can guess from who," he said slyly. Actually, the certain blond he was referring to most likely wouldn't be available to text for another hour at least, when he got out of class, but I let it go, not particularly eager to explain myself. "Do you have time to talk?"

"Not really," I said, stretching my legs under my desk. If we were getting technical about it, I really didn't even have time to piss, but if I had to look at these fucking designs for this fucking campaign for one more fucking minute, a good half of the department would end up getting fired today, as a result of my bad mood. "Why? Anything important going on?"

"Not really. It's just that the guys are all going to Woody's for a drink later tonight, if you want to come."

I lifted an eyebrow. "Tonight?" I repeated. I'd already decided last weekend that, the next time there was an opportunity to go out, I would at least mention it to Justin. Let him make the decision for himself. I had no idea what kind of mood he would be in, but he'd been calm and collected enough when I'd dropped him off at PIFA this morning. "What time?"

"We were thinking around seven?"

I nodded, forgetting he couldn't see me. "I'll think about it...it depends."

He didn't ask for further elaboration, for which I was grateful. We talked for a few more minutes, and then I heard the distant rumble of voices, as though he'd suddenly walked into a crowd, then, about a minute later, what sounded like the muted chime of the comic shop's door.

"Well, my break's over. I'd better get back," said Mikey.

"Probably," I agreed. "It is your civic duty to make sure there's never a zero left without a hero."

"Shut up, asshole," he said, and I could just see him, rolling his eyes, but grinning anyway. "See you...whenever."

"Yeah. See you."

And with that, I flipped my cell closed, setting it aside and letting out a deep breath. I sat, staring at my computer screen, contemplating his offer.

Normally, I'd probably go. I did go out once or twice a week, leaving Justin with his mother or Daphne for a few extra hours. Besides my generally idiotic coworkers and clients here at Vanguard (I didn't typically count Cynthia in the 'generally idiotic' category, but she was one of few) and the couple of minutes a day I saw Jennifer and Daphne, those one or two days were basically the only real socialization I had these days, outside of Justin himself. I hadn't stopped by the diner for lunch in a while, which meant I hadn't seen Lindsay or Debbie except at the family dinners. Nights out with the guys were rare and lasted only a couple of hours, at the most. And basically the only people Justin saw on a regular basis were his mother and his best friend. The last few weeks we'd attended the family dinners had been something of a breakthrough. I could only hope, for his sake, that it would continue.

But the point was, we'd both basically dropped out of our whole social circle. There were no more late nights with the guys, no breakfasts at the diner. It wasn't as though we'd become hermits, exactly, but I did miss going out without the the little voice in my head nagging me because Justin wasn't there. I missed telling Debbie her diner coffee tasted like stale cum and earning myself a slap on the head. I missed regularly mocking Theodore's inability to get laid. I missed—God help me—Emmett's dancing, Ben's ramblings about philosophy and cultural shit, Mikey's comic book rants. I missed my sonny-boy and I missed Lindsay's irritatingly knowing little jibes. I missed arguments with that bitch Melanie.

Most of all, however, I missed Justin. I missed being _us. _Ironic, considering that before all this, I never would have admitted there'd _been _an us, and now it was what I was missing most from my life. Now, I missed pulling him close for a kiss at Woody's or while walking down the street just because I felt like it. I missed digs about our sex life from our friends. I missed a time when I could show him exactly how fucking much I loved him without a single word. I'd never tell a soul, but I missed the fucked up little whatever it was we used to have together.

I'd never tell my friends any of this, of course. And I'd never mention it to Justin, who would only take it as a reason to feel guilty. But I truly did miss life as it used to be.

But—the thing was—so did he. He missed them all, too. He missed me. And I could understand that, which was precisely why I thought it might be a pleasant change for him to go somewhere for fun for once, rather than because I'd placed him on lockdown. I hadn't asked him to come out with me in ages; he'd never shown any signs of wanting to. But he'd enjoyed himself at the last two family dinners. Could he handle more? Would he want it?

I decided it was worth asking.

~.~

I picked him up from his mother's on the way home, listening intently as he told me, glowing with pride, about how he'd gotten a grade back on a project he'd turned in last week. An _A. _The best fucking mark he'd gotten in months. I'd never seen him so ecstatic over a grade, but I had to admit, I was proud of him, too. After months and months of him feeling like such a crucial piece of himself was slipping away yet again, this was a welcome change.

He threaded his fingers through mine as we headed into my building, only letting go in the elevator to wrap them around my tie instead and pull me down for a kiss. My lips quirked upward as they met his, and I tugged him closer.

"Hey," I muttered against his lips. "You feel like celebrating tonight?"

He pulled away, eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Celebrating?"

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then decided that, whatever reservations I had, it was only fair to offer him the option. "Michael called me today. He wants to know if we want to come out to Woody's with the guys tonight." Okay, so he hadn't exactly said _we. _But that was only because he knew about Justin's issues with crowds. He would be more than welcome.

"Woody's?" he repeated weakly. I could see the internal battle taking place behind his eyes, between what he wanted, and what he felt brave enough to take.

"We can stay home," I said immediately. "But...the offer's there."

He fingered the shoulder strap of his backpack. "It might be fun," he said, almost to himself. "It'll just be the six of us?"

"Just the six of us," I assured him. "We can get a couple tables to ourselves, have a few drinks..."

"I can't," he said at once. "I can't drink, remember? I'm taking those pills."

"So then don't have anything alcoholic," I shrugged.

We had reached our floor, and I led the way out of the elevator. He still hadn't given me a definite answer, but I decided to let it go for now. We had a little while until we had to leave, if we were indeed going. He followed me inside the loft, slinging his backpack down on the computer chair and kneeling down beside it to unload its contents onto the desk. I began loosening my tie, stripping off my jacket. As I looked through my closet for a change of clothes, the softly spoken sound of my name from across the loft caught my attention.

Justin was standing there, holding one of his textbooks. Or at least, it looked like a textbook. Closer examination revealed it to be smaller, thinner...black. His therapy log. As an almost instinctive reaction, my heart skipped several beats. I'd forgotten that I had left it there earlier this morning after flipping through it. He didn't have nightmares, not anymore. The sole purpose of it now was to document his 'mood evaluation scale' numbers every day. They tended to hover in the 4-6 area lately.

"I want to go," he said simply, looking up at me.

I stopped trying to unbutton my shirt and stood there, looking right back at him. "Justin..." I sighed. Suddenly I regretted mentioning it in the first place. I should have known better, seeing the glint in his eyes, that book in his hand. It had only been a suggestion, but lately his frustration was getting the better of him, forcing him forward, beyond his comfort levels. Just to prove he could. Because he wanted that ten. Because he wanted just to get over this, and that, in my opinion, was no reason to do anything. Not in a situation like this.

"Look, I'm not...you don't have to go if you don't want to," I told him. "It was just—an invitation."

He shrugged, setting his log back down on the desk, and doing his best to smile at me. "Well...I accept."

~.~

So an hour later—both of us freshly showered, dressed, and ready to go—we headed out, my misgivings put aside, his hand tightly entwined with mine. I actually would have liked to think this was just out of habit, or even some ridiculously lesbionic urge of his, but tonight, I wasn't so certain.

"You're sure about this?" I asked him, at least a good dozen times on the way there.

Each and every time, the answer was the same. A small "yeah," a nod, and fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt.

"There are going to be other people there," I said, as if he didn't realize. "And it's not like in school, where everyone's quiet and sits at a desk." Somehow, this felt more—real—than anything else we'd done, or anywhere else we'd gone. This wasn't like the familiar atmosphere of a family dinner; it wasn't his mother's house or his best friend's apartment. It was a bar full of strangers, and as much as I'd wanted to give him the opportunity earlier, I was seriously second guessing that decision now.

"I know."

"If it starts to get to be too much..."

"I _know, _Brian," he said, annoyance tinging his tone.

I nodded a little to myself and squeezed the wheel so hard that my knuckles turned white. "I just...don't want you to push yourself."

I saw him shrug out of the corner of my eye. "I'm the one who said I didn't just want to wait around for something to happen."

"That doesn't mean you need to push yourself, if you're not ready for it to happen," I countered.

"It also doesn't mean I shouldn't take chances when I see them and make things happen on my own," he replied coolly.

For a split second, it was like we were back to a time, over four months ago now, in this very jeep. Different argument. Different problem. But for that one second, I could see inside us the same people that we'd been back then.

On one hand, there was him, wanting to pay for school on his own, determined as always, absolutely resolute in his decisions, no matter how self-destructive they turned out to be. No matter what had changed within him, no matter what had happened between that time and now, this convinced me more than anything else that Justin was still _there, _still the headstrong fucker who knew what he wanted and would do whatever it took to get it. That was something I'd always admired about him. Something I'd always loved.

On the other hand, there was me. Playing the concerned boyfriend. Desperate to help, frustrated when he wouldn't allow it, and hating the feeling of being so helpless in it all. It wasn't that I'd ever really doubted his ability to take care of himself. After all, I did _know _him, and to know Justin was to also know that he knew how to get what he wanted. He'd gotten me to come to his prom, he'd gotten into my loft and into my bed, he'd gotten a job to pay for school. Justin always got what he wanted, in the end. The only problem was, these things often came with prices, and he was always the one paying.

I did see where he was coming from. I really did. Even if patience and waiting were major requirements on getting through this, we weren't going to get anywhere if we didn't try. If he wanted his life back, it was up to him to fight for it, even just a little at a time. And things like this—going out with our friends—those were all a part of our old lives, too, weren't they?

The guys were waiting for us by the time we got to Woody's. I watched their eyes grow wide, one by one, as they realized who I was with, in much the same way the used to do back when Justin and I were such an uncertainty, and me showing up somewhere with him at my side—well, knowingly and intentionally—was an occasion to remember.

"You can go sit down with them," I muttered to Justin as some beefy guy in a leather jacket brushed against his arm on his way past us, causing his grip on my arm to tighten to a rather painful degree. "I'll get us something to drink. Or do you want me to come with you? Or you can come with me?"

He took one look at me, then the table around which our friends were grouped. "I can do it," he said, though he sounded uncertain.

"I know you can," I said into his ear, and he smiled, slowly releasing my arm. Despite my promise to fetch us drinks, I stood and watched as he made his way across the bar, sighing in relief when he made it. Way to go, Sunshine.

I waited at the counter for the bartender's attention, remembering to order Justin something virgin, and brought our drinks to the table. Ted, Emmett, and Ben were in hysterics about something when I arrived, while Michael looked rather disgruntled. I set Justin's drink in front of him with a _clink _and took a seat beside him, my hand reaching for his, resting them both on top of his knee. He sighed a little and leaned into me. He was the only one besides Mikey not laughing his head off, settling for a weak smile instead.

"Hey, Bri. Justin was just telling us about Michael's days as a pyromaniac," explained Ted, sending Emmett into another round of raucous laughter on Theodore's shoulder. Ah. Well...that explained it. The infamous toaster story. I smirked and nudged Justin with my elbow, and his grin widened almost sheepishly.

"I can't believe you told him that," Michael attempted to glare at me, but his resolve was waning, his irritated demeanor starting to crack. Finally, it seemed, he could contain himself no more, and he snorted into his drink. "Jesus, do you remember how pissed off my mom was?"

And so it continued, the laughing, the teasing, the flammable toaster jokes at Michael's expense, which even he had to join in on. I kept a tight hold on Justin's hand, stroking it with my thumb, and eventually letting go to put an arm around him instead when he began to look a little too tense. He was doing his best to relax and join in the conversation, but every time someone would pass by the table, he'd tense up. Even Emmett, who was sitting next to him in one of the booth-type seats, was careful to give him his room after accidentally brushing his shoulder and making him jump about a foot off the seat.

"Do you want to go?" I leaned over to whisper in his ear, which included the benefit of pulling him a little closer to me. Even with Ted and Emmett next to us and Mikey and Ben across the table in a couple of chairs, I was glad we'd ended up in one of the booths. It made it easier to slide closer to him when he needed it, and alternatively allow him his space when he needed that.

"No. I'm okay," he said, though his grip on his drink was making his fingers turn white. I pressed a reassuring kiss to his cheek, and he gave a hesitant smile that faded a little too quickly. "Um, I think I need another drink."

"I'll get it."

He shook his head, and though his grasp on my arm was causing me to lose feeling in everything below my elbow, he was resolute. "I can get it."

"Then let me come with you," I said. He bit his lip, glancing from me to the bar and back, and nodded.

"We'll be back," I said to the group as a whole, and slid from the booth, Justin right behind me.

I fixed him with a serious look as we took a seat at the bar. "Are you sure you're okay?"

He nodded, letting out a deep breath. He was perched on the very edge of his stool, as though ready to bolt at any moment. "It's crowded in here," he admitted. "I didn't...it's just more than I expected."

"We can go," I said at once, already half way off my own seat. "We'll just tell the guys we're going, and then..."

"No," he cut me off, not budging an inch. "No. I'm not leaving yet."

I frowned. "Justin, if you're—if you want to go, they'll understand."

He swallowed hard, drumming his fingers on the bar. He seemed to catch himself, curling them into a fist and taking another deep breath. "It's not them I'm worried about.".

"Then who?" I demanded. He didn't answer, fingering a discarded coaster on the bar. _"Me?"_

"No," he said calmly. "Me."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, and looked up in surprise when he suddenly slid from the stool beside me.

"Where are you going?" I asked, daring to hope that he was finally giving in and allowing me to take him home. This whole thing had been a stupid fucking idea from the beginning. Whatever he said to the contrary, he wasn't fine. He wasn't laughing or joking at all anymore. He was tense and scared, and I knew it was only his innate stubbornness keeping him here.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he shrugged. He took one final deep breath before releasing my hand completely.

"I'm coming with you," I said firmly, grabbing a hold of his wrist again when he tried to walk away. Him going off alone was just screaming _bad fucking idea._

"No. I can do it by myself." He leveled me with a look that booked no room for argument. I wanted to. I wanted to tell him that he was being a fucking twat, pushing himself when past experience had only proved that it was a mistake. But he had that fucking _look _on his face, the same one I'd seen on him so many times after the bashing. Fierce, unbridled determination.

Reluctantly, I let go of his arm.

He gave me what was probably supposed to be a reassuring, here-goes-nothing type of smile, but my eyes followed him all the way to the bathroom.

I drummed my fingers impatiently on the counter top, my eyes fixed so intently on the bathroom exit that I didn't realize when the bartender set our drinks down in front of me until he tapped me on the shoulder, wanting his fucking money. I wasn't sure if Justin would go right back to the table, or if he'd look for me at the bar. A good half a dozen people were suddenly migrating in my general direction, however, while the area around our table was relatively deserted, so I took our drinks and headed back to our friends.

I kept an eye on the bathroom while Emmett launched into an explanation about his new party-planning endeavors. I pretended to listen for what I judged to be about five minutes, but was more likely around two, knowing the way that time drug on when you were anxious about something, and then I could take it no longer. Ignoring the questions from my friends as I stood up without warning, mid-conversation, I strode quickly across the bar, sidestepping a few people and simply shoving a few others out of the way.

"Justin?" I called as I slipped into the men's bathroom, my feet echoing on the tile floor even as my voice echoed off the walls, my eyes doing a quick sweep of the narrow room. The sinks. The urinals. No Sunshine.

"Justin, you in here?" I began rapping on the stall doors, but there was no answer from behind any of them other than one or two _what the fuck do you wants? _

Finally, I reached the last stall in the row, practically banging down the door.

"Justin, are you in there?" I called over the sounds of running water and toilet flushing and mindless chatter. Really, did it look like a good place to hold a conversation? It was no more crowded than usual, but it didn't take much to set Justin off, and there seemed to be a ton of people just standing around, leaning against the walls and talking or kissing.

"Brian?"

And there was no mistaking that voice. That tone—that little whimpering tone that told me he was scared out of his wits, that he was too terrified to move. That I had been right.

"Are you okay?" I called through the crack in the door.

"Um...I'm... I don't...." he stammered.

Shit. Why the_ fuck_ hadn't I insisted on coming with him? "Open up," I ordered. "Open the door."

"I...I can't."

"Why not?" I asked, but was met with only silence. "Justin, please. It's okay. I won't let anyone else in there. It's just me." I _knew_ this had been a bad idea. I fucking _knew _it. I never should have even mentioned coming here tonight. I should have just taken him home, we could have had dinner, maybe watched some TV. Instead, he was freaking out in a fucking bathroom stall.

Another heavy silence, then slowly, the little silver lock began to turn in the door. I pushed it open, gently, in case he was behind it, and slid inside—shutting and locking it behind me, as promised.

It was a handicapped stall, and therefore quite a bit larger than the rest, or I wouldn't have even fit without practically lying on top of him. He was against the stall wall, his legs pulled up to his chest, his chin on his knees as he hugged them tightly. I dropped down next to him, trying not to think about the fact that these were a particularly expensive pair of jeans that I would ordinarily be too fond of to kneel in on a filthy bathroom floor.

"Justin," I said, scooting close and laying a hand on his knee, not sure just yet how my touch would be received. "What happened? Look, just...just let me help you. We'll go straight to the jeep if you want, okay? We'll go home."

"I've been trying," he said through clenched teeth. "I've been trying to get up and come get you for the past five minutes."

Fuck. Why the hell had I let him come in here alone? Why hadn't I gone after him the second he'd left my sight? Maybe he would have been pissed at me, but right now, I was pretty sure even he would have agreed that it was a better alternative than this. "Well...I'm here now...we can go. Come on, it's okay...."

"No. It's not," he said at once, his grip on his knees tightening. "I can't go out there."

I frowned, trailing my fingers delicately down his arm. "Why not?"

He pressed his forehead into his knees, shoulders slumped, and sighed. "He might be out there still. I don't want him to see me."

"You don't want...who to see you?" I asked, alarm bells ringing in my head already. Him. Who the fuck was _him? _

He wiped at the corner of his eye, letting out another shaky sigh. "The guy...the guy who was in here with me."

What the fuck? "Justin, what _guy?"_

He shrugged, sniffling. "I don't know. Just some guy here. He...he tried to come onto me."

It was like someone had physically knocked the air from my lungs. "Who? What did this guy look like?"

He must have heard something in my voice, however, some warning, because he suddenly fixed me with a stern look. "You're not saying anything to him. He didn't do anything wrong."

"He freaked you out."

"It's not like that's difficult to do," he said grimly, letting out a huff of dark amusement. "It wasn't his fault. I just—panicked."

"What did he say?" I asked, trying my best to keep any accusatory or dangerous tones out of my voice. I reached up to brush his hair back from his face, and let my arm fall around him. He relaxed, leaning into my touch. "What did he say to you?"

"He said...just, normal pick-up lines. You know...stuff you'd say to tricks."

I sighed and leaned my head against the top of his, my breath stirring his hair. "Did he try anything else?"

"He tried to convince me," he admitted, and continued hastily at the look on my face. "Nothing really physical. He just had his hand on the outside of the door, like he was trying to block me in or something. I was stupid...I just panicked and locked myself in here. I never even got to fucking piss," he tried to laugh, but it came out all forced and wrong.

"You weren't stupid," I assured him quietly. It was...understandable. The only person to look at him _that_ way since the party was currently sitting in a filthy bathroom stall with him. He trusted me, knew that no matter what I felt, or what I wanted, I'd never hurt him. But the last time someone else, someone besides me, had looked at him like that, it had changed his life forever.

He shot me a look that plainly told me to spare him the bullshit. Or at least, what he viewed as bullshit. "I fucking freak out just because a guy hits on me?" he asked desperately. "It's fucking pathetic. I could have said no, and it would have been fine, but..."

"...but the last time you said no—no one listened," I finished. He just looked at me, and I noticed that distant dullness in his eyes that I'd just started to hope would never be returning; just one incident was all it took, and he was right back there, remembering that night and all it stole from him. He swiped at his cheek, his gaze dancing around mine, as though hoping I wouldn't notice the presence of tears.

I regarded him sadly for a moment. "Not...not everyone wants to hurt you, Justin," I said, choosing my words with care.

"I know."

And I got the impression that he meant it. It was just that sometimes, the panic became too much, the memories too real, and he couldn't handle it. And after what he'd been through, it was no wonder.

Suddenly, our conversation was rudely interrupted by a loud banging from my right. "Will you fucking hurry up in there?"

"Fuck off," I called right back. I glimpsed a pair of feet, adorned in the ugliest fucking shoes I'd ever seen, from beneath the door, shuffling away.

"Are you ready to go?" I asked, my voice gentle once again, turning back to Justin. He nodded, and we helped each other to our feet. I swung an arm around his shoulders, hugging him close to my side, as we navigated our way out of the bathroom and back through the crowded bar, to the sweet relief of the cool night air.

**~. Justin .~**

"We shouldn't have gone...we shouldn't have fucking _gone....." _

I had to bite my lip not to respond to that. I was angry. I was frustrated beyond belief. But even then, I knew that taking it out on Brian was ridiculous and unfair. I couldn't let myself get overwhelmed by my failure. It only made me want to push harder, made me want even more to succeed, and that only left me with more miserable moments like these. So I kept my mouth shut, letting him rant and mutter to the steering wheel, berating himself for his decision to take me with him.

Not that it was his fault, of course; the exact opposite, actually. I claimed sole responsibility. He'd wanted to come with me, and I'd had to go be stubborn and stupid and do it on my own. I'd wanted to be over it, over that incessant fear and helplessness. I'd wanted to deal with it.

I'd _thought _I could deal with it.

"I'm sorry," I said after a couple of silent minutes between us. "For ruining your night. You should just...go without me next time."

"Or maybe next time, you'll let me go with_ you," _he snapped.

I dropped my gaze to my knees. His gentle understanding had dissipated a bit since the bathroom. He was irritated about that, and rightly so. I should have let him come with me, shouldn't have wanted so badly to prove to him that I could leave his side.

Truth be told, I was kind of—embarrassed? Ashamed, I guess the word was. I'd been so nervous, so scared inside that bar, and still, I'd told Brian that I could do it. That I could handle being by myself, handle being around the crowd, and I'd gone and freaked out on him.

"You were right, okay?" I sighed, closing my eyes against the images rushing past outside my window. "I should have let you come with me."

"Yeah. You should have," he said indifferently.

I'd just started accepting the fact that he was pissed enough to keep up his stony silence the whole way home, when he spoke—his voice softer, gentler once again, the fight drained out of him. "But, if you had—you wouldn't be you."

I could practically hear the end of that sentence being completed in his head, the affectionate_ stubborn twat _he'd no doubt added on mentally, and relaxed.

He went right to the bedroom when we got home, stripping of his jeans and T-shirt and pulling on a pair of sweatpants to lounge around in. He laid with me on the couch, combing his fingers through my hair as I let that night's sleeping pill take effect. We were watching some old sitcom, but I'd admit to paying more attention to the sensation of his hands running through my hair than whatever was on TV.

"Brian?" I asked, my eyelids drooping. I turned my head just slightly to press a kiss to his bare chest. It felt nice to have him against me like that, even if I was still wearing one of his baggy T-shirts. I wondered what it might feel like if both of us were shirtless, his skin bare against mine.

"Hmm?" he muttered lazily.

I rested my cheek against him, right over his heart, listening to its steady beat. Was this what he meant by not 'pushing myself?' If I were to, say, take off my shirt and lay here with him, skin on skin...it would be because I truly wanted to do it, not because I thought I should be able to.

However, I didn't quite have the energy for sitting up right now, let alone taking my shirt off, so I just curled up on top of him, feeling his heart's steady _thumpa thumpa _beneath my ear.

"Nothing."

And it was there that I drifted off to sleep.

~.~

On Thursday, the day after my little breakdown in the bathroom at Woody's, Brian and I had dinner over at my mother's house. It used to be even her place and Daphne's apartment would make me somewhat uneasy, but lately, they felt as comfortable as they always had before. There was no immediate need to get back to the loft, no urgency to attach myself to Brian's side. My mother had actually engaged in conversation with my boyfriend, while my sister insisted on giving him a 'gift'— a piece of notebook paper with smiley-face stickers stuck to it. Even without the stress of being away from the loft, I'd at least expected the usual tension between my mom and Brian, but they talked and joked, and actually seemed to have fun.

Friday was a bit of a different story. Brian picked me up from Daphne's that evening, where she apparently explained to him (while I was in the bathroom, unable to defend myself) that I'd been rather distant with her all day, which of course immediately put him on edge. And it probably didn't help that I only picked around at my dinner that night, though Brian had ordered all my favorite Chinese foods.

About a half an hour after my meager dinner, I dragged out a canvas, some newspaper for the floor, and some paint. Brian was supposedly talking to Lindsay over the phone in the bedroom, but he kept his voice unnaturally low, growing even quieter every time I so much as glanced in his direction. The weird phone calls had severely decreased in frequency, at least at home, but that didn't mean much. He could still get them at work, and if Lindsay was really on the other line right now, I'd eat my paintbrush.

Meanwhile, I tried to concentrate on my canvas. 'Tried' being the key word.

I wondered if he realized that it had been a month ago today that I'd stood up on that rooftop, inches away from giving up on everything. Nearly a whole fucking month of therapy logs, of the strictest of surveillance, of trying to recover from that night, along with everything else.

A month ago today, I hadn't been taking sleep medication or antidepressants. I didn't yet know Kathy. I hadn't been able to join the gang for dinner at Deb's, Brian didn't lock me inside my own home, and I hadn't had my three-month HIV testing. A lot had changed in that month.

But maybe the biggest change was that I no longer considered death an option. No longer wished for it as a chance at relief to my pain.

I wondered what it would take to get Brian to see that, too. He was still so careful, so hesitant to trust me. I guess I couldn't blame him, after what I'd done, but it was still hard sometimes. He was letting me shave on my own now, but he still kept my medicine hidden and controlled. He no longer forced breakfast down my throat every single morning—he didn't have to—but still checked in on me if he thought I was taking too long in the shower. I just wished that I could make him feel what I felt, just for a minute, so that he would know that he truly did not have to worry about me like that. Not anymore.

It was well over an hour later that I stepped back from my latest project, eying the colors and the textures and the design itself...taking it in for what it was. What I'd made of it. It was...real. That was the only word I could think of to describe it.

I could hear Brian's footsteps behind me, but I didn't bother to turn around. I knew what was going through his mind anyway. His uncertainty was made evident when he cleared his throat, obviously racking his brains for something to say. My name was what came out. Soft, worried.

"I just...needed to," I told him truthfully. He knew what I was talking about, and I prayed that he wasn't about to make a big deal out of this. It really _wasn't_ a big deal. At least, not in a bad way. This was a good thing. No matter what residual negativity the memories still carried, this had been a form of closure, I supposed. A checkpoint, to remind me, to hold me to my own personal promise to fight. To live through this, even when taking one more breath felt like drowning. Lately, though, I would admit...it was becoming easier to breathe again.

I stood and stared at the city unfolding before me, tiny dashes of light, like stars as they lit up the view. Two figures, shadowy and indistinct, but clearly embracing, on the precipice of everything. The night I'd almost lost everything, lost the fight. Lost myself.

It was strange, but I'd almost felt—numb—painting this. Because it truly wasn't me dwelling on death, or escape... it was about life. It was proof that I'd been there, that I'd survived it. A memento. A reminder of a place I swore I'd never to return to. Not when there was the here and now, not when I could look back and know that I'd made it through that. That I had outlasted my own expectations just be standing here and being alive this very second. This was a vow. Or rather, the cementation of that vow. It was a promise to myself and to the world...to Brian.

I felt his arms go around me as we stood there, just gazing at the painting. It wasn't really finished, but the basics were there, and I kind of liked it that way. Raw, as I was caught up in the memories of that night on the rooftop, even the ones I didn't want. Memories of tears streaking down Brian's face, of his voice breaking as he tried to talk me down from my decision. Things like memories of memories, dawn breaking outside the window as I'd come clean and told him everything about the night I was...about the night that had changed my life.

"I—I need to shower," I said, breaking the unnatural silence that had descended over the both of us. "I've got paint all over me."

He nodded, apparently still trying to shake off the effect of the piece. I really hadn't meant for it to be some monumental thing. It was just the image that came to mind when I closed my eyes, just the closure, the final silent promise to myself and to him that I would never be returning there. And maybe the fact that I was able to paint it at all meant something, meant that I was moving past it. That we could move past it.

Maybe it meant that I was moving past the _reason _I'd ever even done it in the first place.

I quickly cleaned off my brushes, and with a final glance at my painting, departed for the bathroom, peeling off my paint-streaked shirt as I went. It was kind of strange, and probably stupid to anyone else, but I always liked having paint-shirts. They were all old and ratty and stained, but every time they gained a new blotch, every time I manage to accidentally paint my fingers or smear my cheek, it made me feel like a real artist. There was something about being streaked with the essence of your inspiration that just made you feel accomplished. It was something that told me this was who I was and what I did. What I lived for.

Well, one of the things I lived for.

I took my time scrubbing at the dried paint on my arms, turning my skin pink where it was particularly stubborn and refused to come off. I was going at a particularly obstinate streak of gray on my elbow when the bathroom door opened, and Brian was suddenly there.

"Hey, are you going to be in there a while?" he asked.

"Not really. Why?" I called over the rush of the water, straining my ears to catch his response.

"I need a shave," he admitted, running his hand over his stubbly chin. I kind of wished he wouldn't shave it just yet. It was always rough on my face when we kissed, but I liked the way it felt under my palm when I would cup his cheek. He'd admitted once that he liked me that way, too, but I'd never really liked the way I looked with a beard. I'd let it grow out a little once, but finally, even Brian had ended up wanting me to shave, his reason being that my prickly hairs irritated his thighs when I went down on him. I supposed I could do it now; there was no need to worry about that anymore.

"Go ahead." I really did appreciate the way he was trying to give me my space and let me climb out of the shower in privacy, but up until a few weeks ago, he'd insisted on standing outside the door until I'd finished; I'd kind of gotten used to him being in the room with me. I watched him from behind the steamed glass until finally, I could prolong the inevitable no longer.

As always when he was in the room, I took a deep breath, wrapping my towel firmly around my waist, and stepped out. I was used to it, but I was also still naked, and he was still standing right fucking there. I could sense his eyes on me in the mirror, and wondered if I could handle not making a mad dash for my clothes right away. I used to be able to walk around naked after showers or sex—or shower sex—without a second thought. He was looking; I knew he was looking. How long could I handle drying myself off without freaking out and hastily grabbing for my clothes?

Keeping my breathing nice and even, I dried off every inch of my body, occasionally using the towel to cover as much of myself as I could. But I didn't lunge for my clothes, and that was good, right? I could let him see me naked. Even if I did eventually give in and pull on a pair of pants.

I didn't really mind him looking, especially when he was so discreet about it. It meant he still wanted me. It meant he still found me worth looking at. Though I couldn't help the way I was so overly aware of how close he was, or the way my heart started beating faster in my chest, I was at least grateful that he still seemed to be attracted to me. Hopefully someday—assuming I could—he'd want to be with me again.

"I need a shower," he sighed, setting down the razor and running a hand over his freshly shaven face. I had a sudden desire to run my own fingertips over it. As much as I liked his rough stubble, I loved the way his smooth cheeks and chin felt against my skin, too. Okay, so I fucking loved him any way I could get him.

His eyebrow quirked when I took a step closer, his black wifebeater soft against my bare chest. I ran my hand over his cheek, his chin, smiling a little.

He smiled back, and leaned down to kiss me. His hand dropped from my face to my shoulder, the other gently cupping my neck. I continued just to run my fingers over his clean-shaven skin, enjoying the way it felt, while his hand slid further down my arm, brushing my chest lightly and coming to a rest at my hip, right over the band of my sweatpants.

I broke the kiss, nudging his nose with mine. Maybe I couldn't really go out just yet, and maybe we couldn't really do much physically with each other here at home. But I could kiss him the way I'd always kissed him, and as long as that still belonged to me, I was going to enjoy it.

"I need to shave," I muttered, still not letting him go.

"I need to shower," he said again, resting his forehead against mine. "Do you want me to wait?"

Frowning just a little, I shook my head. "No. Go ahead. I'll be fine."

Finally, I released him and turned back to the sink. I didn't have to look in the mirror to know that he was hesitating, but then there was the unmistakable sound of clothing hitting the floor.

I was always careful not to look at him when we were like this. If I didn't look, I could handle him moving around me, as long as he didn't touch me. I could handle knowing he was there.

But maybe...he was in the shower, shut off from me by a thin sheet of glass. And besides that, it was _Brian..._

I took a deep breath, and dared a quick glance over my shoulder.

Christ.

He looked as beautiful as ever, water cascading down his shoulders and over his gorgeous back. For the first time in a very, very long time, I really _looked _at him. I really let myself see.

He really was gorgeous. Hell, he was more than that. He was...sexy? Was that the word I was looking for? Was I feeling real, sexual attraction towards him?

For some reason, I didn't want him to catch me staring, so I turned around and picked up the razor and shaving cream. But there he was anyway in the mirror, so—I looked. Even observing from a distance, it had been a long time since I'd allowed myself to enjoy the view of my boyfriend like this.

So...okay. We could be naked in front of each other, for reasons other than him wanting to keep an eye on me. That...had to be good, right? It had to be good that I didn't really mind him watching, that I was just more hyper-aware of it than anything. And it had to be good that I could at least appreciate the view of him in the shower. Maybe we couldn't really do anything yet, but that had to be a step in the right direction.

The question was, how did I bring myself to take another?

**~. Brian .~**

I'd been cautious about undressing in front of him, ready to leave at the slightest sign of his discomfort. But I'd climbed in the shower, turned on the water, and—

Caught him looking.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I'd caught him looking at me in the shower. It was only for a few seconds, and it was hard to read the expression on his face, through the water in my eyes and my pretending not to watch him watching me.

But he was. He most certainly was.

That had been last night. Today was Saturday, the night of yet another family dinner. In truth, I actually wasn't looking forward to this one as much as I had last week's. I'd so far managed to avoid any calls from the guys, but they would be there tonight, and would naturally be bringing their questions with them. Questions such as what the fuck had happened to us on Wednesday night at Woody's, and why we'd suddenly disappeared without notice. Knowing Michael, he'd have a few words for me about that. He worried far too much for his own fucking good. Wonder where he got _that _from.

Justin and I had mainly lounged around the loft for most of the day. He'd put a few finishing touches on his painting from the night before, and I worked a little on my computer.

The painting was...well, it was intense, but it was a kind of intensity no one but the two of us would ever be able to understand. Just the shadowy edge of the building, two indistinct figures embracing against the star-flecked backdrop of sky.

But the thing was...it wasn't a bad kind of intensity. Dark as it was in color, with its shadowy blacks and navies and grays, it never crossed the line into painful dark. Miserable dark. Because that wasn't what it was; it wasn't out of pain this time.

This was behind him. This had happened, we had both dealt with it, _were _dealing with it. But we'd survived it, and I understood that. This was part of his life, part of _our _lives, documented on a canvas. This whole thing, every hardship, every torturous second that we went through...it was all a part of us. Part of what had happened to him.

Around five, we decided to head over to Deb's. As usual, he kept his hand intertwined with mine, but his grip was loose and I had a feeling this was more out of his urge to be a complete lesbian than out of fear or unease. Whatever. If he wanted to hold my hand, it wasn't the worst thing in the world.

His fingers were almost painfully torn from mine, however, when Debbie swung open the front door and swept him into in a hug tight enough to crush half the bones in his upper body. We'd been at her place several times for dinner now, but she still, apparently, hadn't gotten over her jubilation at seeing him again.

Once she released him and led us to the kitchen, I purposefully took a seat near the Munchers. Halfway through dessert, however, I made the mistake of vacating the table to go to bathroom; I opened the door on my way out to find my best friend leaning against the opposite wall.

"All yours," I muttered, attempting to pass him.

"Hold up a sec," he said, throwing out an arm to stop me.

I sighed, berating myself for not seeing this coming. I knew I should have returned his calls, but I really hadn't been looking forward to explaining about Justin's bathroom freak out. It was no one else's business, and I doubted Justin wanted everyone knowing.

Mikey started in on me immediately. "Look, what happened last Wednesday? I've been worried as hell about you. You're not answering my calls...I left you three messages yesterday!"

"You could have stopped by," I pointed out, ignoring his tirade of questions. If he was that worried, he could easily have stopped by the loft instead of bombarding me with phone calls that it should have become apparent I wasn't going to answer.

"I did," he said hotly. "Thursday night."

Thursday...Thursday....oh, right.

"We were at dinner with Jennifer Taylor. Christ, you're acting like we ditched you in the middle of nowhere." Okay, so it wouldn't have been the first time I'd done that to my friends...but I'd actually had a legitimate reason this time that they could understand and sympathize with. One that didn't involve getting laid.

"It's not about you ditching us," he argued. "You just went off to the bathroom and never came back. Emmett and I even went in there to look for you. We didn't know what happened. Is Justin okay? He was acting really quiet—we were worried about him. Did something happen?"

"He...kind of freaked out," I admitted, sparing him the details. He didn't need to know, and Justin didn't need for the world to find out. "We decided to just go home."

Whether or not he'd been expecting an answer like this, it obviously had not been the one he'd wanted to hear. His entire expression shifted at once. "God, is he okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "Now. He just needed to get out of there." He'd needed to leave, and I hadn't wanted to take the time with goodbyes and arrangements to call later or anything that could have possibly held us up. Not to mention I hadn't wanted to put him through the discomfort of explaining _why _we were leaving.

"Just...don't broadcast it, all right? He's having a hard enough time as it is." The last thing he'd want was for everyone to think he was some kind of fucking coward or something. Not that they would, but I knew the way Justin's mind worked.

Michael nodded, lips pressed together. "Of course. Listen, we kind of thought something like that might have happened. We were thinking, maybe next time, if Justin still wanted to come...we could just come over to your place instead? Would he be more comfortable there? It's not exactly going out, but if you just wanted to hang out or something..."

"That...sounds good," I said, surprised, though I wasn't sure why. I'd have to find a way to mention it to Justin without making it sound like they were all taking pity on him. He wasn't ready to go out yet. At least, not _out _out. And this way, we'd still get to talk to our friends, and he could still enjoy the comfort and safety of the loft.

Hopefully, someday, Justin would start getting more confidant, more assured, and places like Woody's would no longer be a problem. I couldn't blame him in the slightest for his fear, but maybe one day he'd realize that he wasn't in constant danger every time he set foot out the door. Maybe one day he'd be able to move on and not let fuckers like Hobbes and Sapperstein control his life.

"Hey, Mikey?"

"Yeah?"

I hesitated for the smallest of moments, then asked anyway. "Any idea when Pittsburgh's finest detective is set to make his next appearance?"

He grimaced. "If you mean my mother's boyfriend...."

"Who the fuck else would I mean?" Really, it wasn't as though either of us knew a lot of detectives.

"He couldn't make it tonight," Mikey said, rather unnecessarily, as I could quite plainly see for myself that he wasn't there. I bit my tongue, however, and let him continue. "I think she said he might be coming next week. Why?"

I shrugged, and began heading back for the table, leaving him no choice but to follow.

"No reason."


	25. Extraordinary

**A/N: After way, way too many weeks, the next chapter is finally here. That is, if anyone's still interested. My laptop has been unavailable for the last couple of weeks, and I was too stupid to back up all my files during the "impending doom" stage preceding "useless hunk of electronic crap" phase it ended up in. Fortunately, all is well now, I've got my computer back, and with it, the next chapter, for whoever is actually still reading by this point. **

**~. Justin .~**

I hadn't wanted to mention the whole Woody's incident to Kathy on Monday, but Brian insisted that if I didn't, he'd tell her himself. The story itself had sounded pretty good up until the point where Brian had discovered me cowering in a bathroom stall, but to my bewilderment, Kathy actually called this "progress." Maybe she was proud of me for trying? I didn't see much else that warranted a remark like that, considering I'd had a miniature meltdown on the bathroom floor during a night out with my friends.

Other than that, the session went unusually well. Kathy flipped through my log, commenting brightly on the increase of the numbers on my daily emotional scale. They certainly were better than the lowly twos and threes I'd been awarding my life when I'd started with the exercise.

"Still no nightmares, I see," she noted. "Good...that's good."

I smiled; I couldn't help myself. I'd never have believed it was possible, but that little book, once detailing such misery, had somehow become a cause of pride for me.

"I'm going to give you a new assignment today, Justin," she said, handing the log back to me. "Since you no longer have nightmares to write about, I want you to use the space for something else. Every day, I want you to write down one thing that happened that made you happy."

I bit my lip as I considered this. "What kind of things?"

"Anything," she said at once. "Big or small. Just something that made you smile."

One good thing a day. A month ago, I would have said I didn't have one good thing to write about per week.

Now, the idea didn't seem quite so intimidating.

~.~

I sighed, rapping my pencil against my sketchpad, my eyes going out of focus as I stared down at the partially completed drawing.

Brian. Again. Actually, most of the pages in this book were devoted to him. Sometimes just his face, sometimes his upper body, and there were a few of him stretched out on the couch.

In this one, he was in the shower. His hair had that rumpled look it used to get when it was wet and I'd run my fingers through it, his hips dissolving into nothingness as the lower half of his body faded away off the edge of the page.

I bit the tip of my pencil, held it between my teeth. Not right. Something was off. Something was...missing.

Irritated, I flipped to a new page with yet another drawing from that very morning. A close-up of his head and shoulders, in the shower once again. Beautiful—more than beautiful, he was fucking _perfect. _He was Brian Kinney.

And still, it just...didn't feel _right. _It was supposed to be completed, but I couldn't quite shake the feeling that it ought to have something more to it.

Finally, I flipped to a fresh page, willing myself to try and draw something else—_anything _else—anything I knew I could manage and that wouldn't leave me so incredibly frustrated.

The new drawing began to take form: strong arms that always managed to find their way around me...a chest that I loved to curl up on...perfect lips and hair and eyes....

"Fuck," I groaned, throwing my head back against the arm of the couch when I realized I was drawing the exact same image of Brian in the shower. This was getting pathetic.

"Michael..._Michael," _Brian's voice was sharp with impatience. I tore my attention away from my fifth rendering of his bathing rituals to listen to his increasingly bored, agitated tone as he talked to Michael over the phone and looked through the refrigerator. "Honestly, I really don't give a shit about—yes, I've seen the damn movie. I just don't give a fuck about whether Superman would kick Spiderman's ass in a fight. I wasn't aware it required reflection fit for a psychology class."

I hid a smirk, sketching the intricate beginnings of a spider web in the corner of a new page.

"How the fuck do I know? Ask your husband to watch it with—you're kidding me, right_? Sixteen _times? There are _porn _videos I haven't even watched sixteen times."

I snorted, now doodling the rudimentary outline of a little figure in my sketchbook.

"Fascinating. Let me know how that works out."

I bit my lip to keep from grinning in amusement as the phone was hung up with unnecessary force, and Brian wandered in from the kitchen, flopping down on the couch near my feet.

"Superman versus Spiderman?" I asked, raising an eyebrow, now beginning to fill out the little doodle-man's broad chest and shoulders.

"Apparently Michael was a fervent participant in the debate of the century today," said Brian, rolling his eyes and pulling my feet onto his lap, one at a time. "Some geek in his shop had the nerve to suggest that Superman would kick Spiderman's ass in an ultimate showdown. Never mind the fact that they're, for all intents and purposes, on the same _side...."_

I chuckled, now filling out doodle-man's eyes. Brian began rubbing little circles into my feet through my socks, making me moan and stretch my legs out towards him. "What are you drawing?" he asked, giving the sock on my left foot a little tug.

I shrugged, sketching out a little mask—not even a mask, just a little shaded cloth with two slits over the doodle's eyes— making him look something like a raccoon. Superheroes never showed their faces. There was Batman, Spiderman, Zorro...they all had masks.

Brian pulled the sock the rest of the way off my foot, still massaging it expertly. I flexed my toes at him, and held up the drawing for him to see. "Personally, I think_ he'd _kick both their asses, easy."

It was a crude drawing, rough in every way, of a bulking figure with a familiar, albeit hurriedly sketched face and two bubble letters emblazoned on the tight outfit stretched across his chest.

He laughed. "Is that supposed to be me? What does 'SS' stand for?"

"Super-Stud," I answered at once.

He snorted. "My stud status makes me a superhero now? Then what does that make you? The damsel in distress?"

I smacked him with the sketchpad. He smirked and bat it away. "Fuck you. Now you're not getting any awesome super powers," I decided, going back to my drawing.

"Now there's a tragedy."

"It is," I said seriously. Or as seriously as I could manage with him now tickling my soles of my feet. I kicked his hand away. "Super Stud was going to have amazing powers. Like...flying."

"Flying?" he repeated, his eyebrow creeping up his forehead. "Wow, do I get a cape, too?"

"No. Capes are overrated."

"Ah."

"You get something sexy," I said thoughtfully. "Super Stud has to be sexy."

"Obviously. By the way, if you ever mention this to Michael, you're taking every one of his phone calls for the next three years."

"Deal."

"So..." he said after a moment. I braced myself. Any sentence that began with that word and that tone usually meant something I wasn't going to like much. "Did you write anything in your log yet today?"

I'd only had it for a few days, but Brian was already utterly pleased with my new "assignment," as well as the things I'd been writing down. On the first day, I'd written something about kissing him, and on Tuesday, I'd written about a watercolor painting that Molly had given me as a gift.

"Not yet," I shrugged. "I'll get to it."

He nodded, patted my feet, then slid them from his lap and pushed himself off the couch. "I'm going to go shower. Unless you want to go first?"

I shook my head. "No. I need to shave, though." It was purely coincidence that I'd put off shaving all day until the exact moment he decided to shower, and had absolutely nothing to do with watching him undress or anything like that. Really.

He leaned down to kiss my cheek, nuzzling his nose against it as if affirming my statement, then departed for the bathroom. I put a few last finishing touches on Doodle-Stud, and headed after him.

Unable to help myself, I let my gaze drift to the mirror as he climbed into the shower, highly appreciative of what I saw. I would have given anything, anything at all, just to be able to strip off my clothes and clamber in after him. I would have given anything to be able to feel him against me, smooth and wet and wonderful.

As it was, I could only watch safely from a distance, my eyes glued to his reflection in the bathroom mirror. I followed his every movement, took in the closed eyes, the way his head tilted back under the spray of the water. Soapy rivulets cascaded over his shoulders, down his bare chest, lower, over his stomach, always lower....

My tongue came out to wet my lips, and I suddenly caught my own reflection in the mirror. I looked—I didn't know what the word was. Interested, definitely. Something a little less than full-blown lust, but settling instead for a dull kind of hunger, an ache for what I couldn't have. But still...for now...it was enough. More than enough, because it actually made me—watching myself watch him, I actually felt somewhat like the person I used to be.

I supposed this could technically count as my "something happy" I was supposed to be writing about for therapy each day. But the truth was it seemed a little too—well, nothing was really _private _with Kathy—but too _intimate _to talk about, to tell anyone at all, even Brian himself. It didn't make sense, but I kind of wanted to just keep this for myself. Sex was something that had felt so far beyond my control for so long, I just wanted to hang onto this one little piece of it. What was more, I didn't want to jinx this—whatever it was—by saying it out loud. As long as it was my little secret, it was safe.

Every night that I could be in there with him, even just to sneak the occasional peek in the mirror, it was like a little thrill went through my body, a jolt of something I hadn't felt in far too long. It was just what Kathy had suggested...it was something we used to do that we'd given up after_ it_ had happened. And while the incident at Woody's had shaken me somewhat in my ferocious determination, something akin to genuine confidence would bubble up inside me every time I was able to look at him, and not want to run. It made me happier than I'd been in a long time; there was no question about that.

Too soon, though, he was shutting off the water and climbing out, pulling on boxers and sweat pants and a wifebeater. I loved the way those fit him, though; they made his sculpted arms look even more enticing, so that I was endlessly tempted to run my hands up them and over them and have them wrapped around me.

I'd just finished up at the sink when I got my wish, his arms coming to fold around me from behind, his lips brushing against my ear, my cheek, my neck...letting me lose myself in him. He rested his lips there innocently for a moment, then, slowly, they parted against my skin, sucking lightly for just a second before kissing it again. I sighed and leaned back into him, my head on his shoulder, eyes open just enough to see the two of us in the mirror. We looked pretty perfect together, him all wrapped around me, arms over my chest. I decided that if this was what being lost in him felt like, I never wanted to be found.

~.~

Despite having taken my sleeping pill a little too late on Thursday night, I still woke up before Brian on Friday morning. I was tempted to wake him up, just to hear his voice and have someone to talk to, to keep my mind off the one thing I really did not want to think about right now. I felt wrong all over in a way I hadn't since I'd had to deal with my nightmares, those types that I could never quite remember in detail, but whose general impression always stayed with me just the same.

Today was it. The four month anniversary of that night.

I rolled over and pulled Brian's arm around me, snuggling up close, seeking the comfort of his body. I couldn't believe it. Didn't know_ how_ to believe it. Four months. I'd been a rape survivor for four fucking entire months.

In the past, these monthly anniversaries...these milestones in my life...had all been accompanied by change—usually something rather drastic. They'd all left their mark, left their evidence that another month had passed, another four weeks had gone by.

The first month had been the night I'd done my best to "heal" myself and my relationship, and ended up sobbing on Michael's couch when my pathetic attempt had failed. Of course, the very next day had marked Brian's enlightenment; it was the day that he'd found out what had happened to me at that party, just over a month after the fact. A month of being scared and alone. A month full of nights spent feeling sick to my stomach, hoping against hope that Brian would be too tired to try initiating sex, so that I wouldn't have to lie to him and see the hurt in his face. A month of running without getting anywhere and putting everything I had into just getting through each day.

The second month had been a little more understated, but still carried with it a considerable change in my life. It had been around then that I'd managed to scare Brian enough for him to decide that I needed constant security during the day while he wasn't home. It was that two month milestone that had marked my imprisonment. Two months of the both of us stumbling along in the dark. Two months of pain and fear and neither of us ever really gaining our footing. Two months that had broken me down until I'd just about given up.

The third month had been more about the past than the present; the worst thing that had happened on that particular day had been getting tested again at the clinic. Three months afterward, and my life was basically falling apart. Three months, during which I'd given up hope, and attempted to end it all. Three months, during which I'd scared my partner badly enough to land my ass in therapy. Three months during which my life had slowly deconstructed itself until all that was left behind was a pathetic, wretched mess of a person.

And now, I'd arrived at the four-month anniversary of that night, and I wasn't quite sure what to think of it. There was nothing really drastic or life-changing that had happened lately. The last three "anniversaries" had all seemed to mark something, something important; this one...it had just sort of crept up on me and happened without much ado.

The alarm started wailing a few minutes later. Brian rolled over me to shut it off, while I kept my body perfectly still, breathing him in as he fumbled with the clock on my side of the bed. He apparently hit the 'snooze' button instead of the 'off' one, though—he never allowed himself the possibility of falling back asleep without the reassurance of an alarm—and a moment later, he'd slumped back over the bed and me, his face buried in my neck, hot breath ghosting over my hair and skin.

"Morning," he whispered after a moment. I wondered how the fuck he knew I was awake, but didn't ask.

"Morning," I answered instead. I felt his lips at the back of my neck, beneath my hair, not really kissing me, just resting there.

It was quiet for a few more peaceful moments. "You going to Daphne's today?" he slurred sleepily into my skin.

"Yeah."

"We need to get up."

"Yeah," I agreed again, but made no immediate effort to move.

It took us a few more minutes and a second round of the alarm to drag ourselves from the bed and into the bathroom. Some mornings, we easily shared the bathroom space, each of us going about our separate routines, but working well together. Today, however, seemed to be one of those mornings where we always seemed to be in each other's way, so finally I went out to get dressed while he fixed his hair in the bathroom mirror. I watched under the guise of making the bed while he went through his usual ten-minute suit-choosing routine, trying hopelessly not to smirk in amusement as he looked through every suit he owned in huffy irritation—three times—before finally deciding on one. Only when he seemed truly desperate did I finally take pity and help him pick out a tie.

He offered to fix breakfast that morning as I took my turn in the bathroom, but Daphne had said that she would be picking up donuts after some early morning obligation, so I refused all but the cup of coffee he offered me as I joined him in the kitchen. I busied myself with adding sugar and milk to my mug, not needing or wanting to look within those suspicious slits of hazel to see the battle taking place behind them.

"You are going to eat, though, right?" he asked slowly, his effort to trust me immediately checked by concern. I found myself appreciating both, in very different ways. He hadn't had to hassle me about this in a while, but I had to admit, he had a genuine reason to be concerned today. I was pretty sure I could expect more than few texts from him while I was at Daphne's.

"Of course."

"Promise?" His eyebrow crept skeptically up his forehead.

"Yeah, I promise, Brian." It wasn't unusual in the least for Brian to be a bit...overprotective of me. But I'd been really good about eating in general lately. I still had my difficult days, but the ones where I starved myself and refused to help myself survive seemed to be behind me, hopefully permanently. Those had been some of my darkest days, back when I'd felt so powerless and so unable to hold onto anything as my life just fell to pieces around me. Maybe there really was something to the theory that Brian had suggested so long ago—that my lack of an appetite, or more accurately, my reluctance to do anything about it, was somehow related to my need for control in my life.

But that was then, and I wasn't living that life anymore. I took care of myself. I ate when I was hungry, and my appetite had returned, for the most part, to the point where Brian had felt justified in making a 'bottomless pit' joke last week when I'd eaten the majority of our Thai dinner. Not that that had stopped him from 'discreetly' shoving more in my direction, and asking me to 'try this,' or 'does this taste different than usual?' I knew I'd scared him before—fuck, I'd done almost nothing _but _scare him for months—not eating, not sleeping...not even really living.

But, however warranted his concern was, I didn't need him to keep me alive today, didn't need him worrying...four month anniversary or not. I knew he had to be thinking along those lines, too, but the truth was, it just wasn't necessary.

Finally, we were both ready to go; the grumbling of my stomach seemed even louder than usual in the heavy silence of the jeep, and this, more than anything else, seemed to convince Brian that I really wasn't planning on skipping any meals today.

He flipped through radio station after radio station, barely giving any of them a chance before moving on to the next. He skipped through some drawling country tunes, a cheesy pop anthem, and some hardcore heavy metal that sounded more like a screeching contest than anything resembling music. Finally, he seemed to decide that there was nothing worth listening to, and switched it off, silence once again filling the jeep.

And still, I couldn't keep my mind off of that undeniable, inconceivable fact that it had been _four months. _Four months, at least two months spent like _this, _with these incessant security measures. And one month, one week since I'd given in to that desire that this daily ritual was supposed to prevent.

I wondered what he'd say if I were to tell him that I wanted to stay home alone. Not that he really had a choice in the matter, when it came down to it...well, maybe he did. He couldn't force me to go to my mom's or Daphne's, but he could certainly take off work and stay home with me himself, which he had threatened to do the first and only time I'd ever brought it up. I didn't want that, nor I didn't want him worrying about me, and—if I was honest—I was secretly kind of glad that I didn't have to spend my days all alone in the empty loft. So, all in all, it was for the best...even I could see that.

But still...four months. Shouldn't _something _have changed by now? Shouldn't I at least be able to have that much back, at such a crucial juncture? Shouldn't I have something pronounced, something that would leave a noticeable impact on my life?

I could have mentioned it. In fact, I _should _have mentioned it. But in the end, my nerves got the best of me. I fought with myself the whole way to Daphne's, but somewhere along the line, it hit me that the reason I couldn't open my mouth wasn't because I was fearing a 'no' as an answer. Even if Brian didn't trust me enough to be completely alone all day yet, and told me so, I could handle that.

It was a 'yes' that I was afraid of. As much as I knew I should've been able to handle it, the idea of being inside the loft all day, all alone...I wasn't sure about it just yet. Brian and Daphne and my mom...they kept me out of my own head and firmly in reality. I didn't have time to dwell on things when Brian was regaling me with various stories about work, or Daphne was chattering about the latest twist on her favorite soap, or my mother was telling me about how Molly was upholding a fine Taylor tradition, having sworn impressively at her teacher and bought herself two days' detention.

"Where the fuck she picks up this kind of language, I'll never know," my mom had said with a miraculously straight face. Debbie really was the best thing that could have happened to her.

But these things were what kept me laughing, and smiling, and living. And even when I was alone—or at least as alone as Brian allowed me to be—left with my thoughts...it was these memories that I ran over in my head, these things I looked forward to. It was what kept me away from _them, _away from _it, _and gave me something good to live for.

"You going to be okay?" Brian asked as we pulled up in front of Daphne's apartment building.

I nodded. It felt a little like lying, but...well, I _would _be okay. Eventually, somehow...I would have to be. I had no other choice anymore.

"Yeah. I'll be fine. It's just Daphne's," I pointed out, as though I hadn't caught the deeper meaning of his question. He knew—he realized what today meant just as well as I did.

"If you need me, just call," he said. I nodded, and before he could start harassing me about anything else, I leaned across the seat to kiss him goodbye. There was no instinctive reaction to push him away. No barrier coming up between what I wanted and what I could allow myself. My fingers brushed his ear, gripped his hair even as he did the same to mine—and suddenly, the image of him, water pouring over every inch of beautiful skin, flashed through my mind as I kissed him harder....

Something was dancing in his eyes as we pulled away from each other, and I struggled to find a label for it before realizing it didn't have one. It was just as uncertain, just as ambivalent as I felt. He didn't know what to think, probably hadn't expected anything like this from me today.

"See you tonight," I said, reaching for my door handle.

"Yeah...see you. And swear to me you'll take advantage of the free food," he growled playfully after me as I slid from the jeep.

"I will," I rolled my eyes. "Don't worry, okay?"

Whatever he read in my face, it seemed to be enough to satisfy him of my honesty, because he smiled briefly, nodded, and let me shut the door.

~.~

If I had been distant with Daphne last week, the one month mark of my suicide attempt, I was far worse today. I completely zoned out while she was talking to me, watched an entire hour of television with her without taking in a single moment, and, from time to time, reached into my pocket to let my fingers brush against my cell phone, reassured that I had the power to hear Brian's voice at the tips of my fingers. I didn't know why today was affecting me like this; it didn't make sense. This was nothing like the last three monthly markers...nothing had even really _happened. _Nothing to upset me, no drastic occurrence to change my entire way of living. And maybe that was the problem: something _should _have been changing. I _should _have had something to show for all this time.

"Are you okay?" Daphne asked when she made a comment about some TV advertisement, I mindlessly agreed, and snapped out of my daze long enough to realize I'd just made some stupid remark about a tampon commercial.

"I'm fine," I muttered, sinking a little further into her couch. I fingered the little hole in the fabric where she'd once burnt the cushion with a joint. I'd been here that day; we'd been passing the joint back and forth, when these three incredibly hot, shirtless guys had come on TV for an advertisement about something I couldn't even remember. I'd made some inane comment, and she'd laughed so hard she'd forgotten about the joint. The result? A nice, round, brownish burn mark on the couch. The next day, I'd accompanied her to the store to buy pillows, in an attempt to cover it up.

"Think about it," she'd said. "I'm getting it on with some really sexy guy on my couch, right? When suddenly, he's sees this burn mark, and is all _'what's that?' _So then I have to tell him all about how I was watching TV with my gay best friend when these really hot guys came on TV and he made some comment about a chain fuck and cleaning products, and I laughed so hard I burnt a hole in my own couch. Kind of ruins the mood, don't you think?"

I was brought out of this rather fond memory when she slid a little closer, the crappy sitcom we were watching momentarily forgotten. "You're not fine," she argued. "What's up?"

I shrugged evasively, but she wasn't having it.

"If you don't tell me what's wrong, I'm talking to Brian," she threatened, in much the same way my parents always used to do when I was little and had done something wrong, holding it expertly over my head..._just wait till I tell your mother, _and the like. But Daphne telling Brian that I'd been distant all day and refused to tell her what was wrong probably wouldn't be much help in convincing him that I was, indeed, _fine, _so I sighed and resigned myself to explaining.

"Do you know what today is?"

She thought for a moment. "Friday, isn't it? It's...oh..._oh," _a look of dawning comprehension washed over her features. "Today's...well, it's it...isn't it? Four months since...."

She spoke so softly, so gently, it was like she was afraid her words might actually shatter me.

"Yeah," I said, my fingers once again straying to my pocket and cell phone. Things hadn't been this way for a while, but it had become a sort of comfort to me today. "Today's it."

She didn't seem to know what to say, dropping her gaze to her couch cushion.

"I didn't think it'd be this...weird. But it's like I'm just...going over all this stuff in my head, you know? Stuff that's happened, what it was like...all these months...."

"But you're here now," she pointed out swiftly. "You're over that."

I nodded absently. "Do you think...I mean, Brian and Kathy say I shouldn't worry, or push myself, but...." But, I couldn't exactly expect an honest, unbiased answer from either of them. Kathy was _supposed_ to be patient with me, it was what she was getting paid for, and the last thing in the world Brian would want to do was pressure me into anything I wasn't comfortable with.

"I don't know. I feel like—I should have..._more,_ or something, you know? It's been four fucking_ months _of this, Daph. I can't even...it's not back to normal. I don't know if it ever will be. I just—it still feels like my life is so...unstable, I guess." I looked at her desperately, begging her to understand. "I'm never sure what I can and can't do, or...it just feels like I should be further—have more—by now."

"Well...you _do _have more. Or at least, more than you did," she pointed out.

I shook my head. "But it doesn't feel like that. I mean...things _are _different, it's just not...."

"Enough," she finished for me, frowning.

"Well...yeah."

She nodded, staring unseeingly at her television screen. She was silent for a moment. "You realize when Brian came to pick you up the other day, you nearly set off my smoke detectors with that kiss?"

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. "But we always kiss like that."

"Exactly," she said at once. "And you and I are always talking. You were always kind of—withdrawn—before," she continued. "You laugh more. You seem happier. Your marks are improving at school."

All true. I'd been so ecstatic about a few of my recent marks that I'd gleefully, if childishly, shared the news with my best friend. But I'd worked hard on that shit. And yeah, we laughed and talked more, that was true, too. But still...those were just normal, everyday things.

"I mean...what do you _want, _Justin?"

I frowned. What _did _I want? She was right about me having more than I did before; there was no denying that. "I don't know," I admitted, frustration leaking into my voice. "I...it just feels like there should be something..._real, _by now, you know?"

"Well..." she said thoughtfully. "Whatever it is you're looking for...you're closer than you were four months ago." And that was true, too. Even if I wasn't quite _there..._I had all these smaller things, propelling me forward, like little checkpoints in my life. Events and occasions and moments. Was that the problem? That I was looking for something that would scream success rather than these little whispers of encouragement? Was I overlooking the smaller things that made life what it was for me in favor of the earth-shattering events?

"I mean, you're—anyone can tell just by being around you—you're doing so much better. When you're here...it's like you're here just—because. Like you're here just to hang out or something," Daphne continued. "Being with you, around you, it just seems like you're...like _you_ again. And things are better with Brian, aren't they? I mean, you're kissing him like...well, like you used to. You're moving through it all, Justin, you know? You just seem more..._you. _Happier. And that's something you didn't have four months ago. You weren't feeling that."

I chewed on my lip, my gaze once again finding that little hole in her couch as I considered her words. I remembered how lighthearted we'd been that day, and it wasn't just because of the weed. It was because we'd truly been _happy..._I'd been happy. And she was right; that was something I hadn't had four months ago today.

"These things—take time, Justin. Just because you're not exactly where you want to be, it doesn't mean you're not getting better. I don't know what you want from yourself, but...I don't even think you realize exactly what you have."

I gave a weak smile. "You're starting to sound like a shrink...or Brian." There was a sentence I never thought I'd say. Right up there with _Brian hates sex _and _I'm flying to the moon on Tuesday, _as far as impossibilities went. Which in all honestly kind of freaked me out.

She laughed softly. "Could be worse."

It could, and wasn't that true about everything? Four months ago, I had been a fucking fall down mess. I had just gone through one of the most horrific experiences of my life—the one contender in the running being taking a bat to the head—and I'd been falling apart, terrified out of my mind and victimized for the second time in less than a year.

Four months ago today, I couldn't kiss my boyfriend. Even the mere thought of sex petrified me. I'd shown up at my best friend's house in a stolen jacket, bearing tear-streaked cheeks, shaken to my very core.

Four months ago today...I'd learned all over again what pain felt like.

And even still...I could barely go out in public. I couldn't be with Brian the way I wanted. The bruises were long gone, but the internal scars still remained. I wondered if, back then, I'd expected to be over this by now. If I'd held out hope that, in four months, I'd be further along than I had turned out to be. That I'd be_ past _this. It was stupid, but it felt almost like I was letting myself down, falling short of my own expectations. Expectations I probably hadn't even really had back then—I hadn't been thinking that clearly or that far ahead.

It was like we'd reached some turning point somewhere along the way. Things may not have been getting worse as much as they were getting better, but back when I'd been falling apart, it had been every piece of me that was crumbling. It was epic and terrible and my entire foundation, everything that held me up, was cracking beneath the pressure. Now, on the other side...it was only ever bits and pieces that built themselves up again. Parts of that progress still crumbled and fell away, and every scrap of success was absolutely essential in keeping me standing. So shouldn't there be something, some definite, concrete sign that proved that I wasn't the same person I'd been four months ago? Shouldn't I have something to fucking _show _for it? Sure, I felt different, but having collapsed so spectacularly, it was cruel and unfair that it took so much time and hard work to rebuild from nothing.

But maybe that was all wrong. Maybe I expected too much, too soon, and I really_ did _have something to show for it. Because I _wasn't _that same wreck of a person I'd been back then. My nights were no longer spent crying myself to sleep, lost in my memories. It may have only been due to pharmaceutical drugs, but I no longer had nightmares, and I could kiss my boyfriend as I pleased. Even if I couldn't actually _have _sex yet, I was at least thinking about it, at least wanting that piece of my life back, and that was more than I could even bear to imagine back then. I didn't feel so much like a victim anymore. I felt...well, like _me. _Less weighed down with pain. Less broken.

So as long as I had these little bits and pieces, these achievements that I'd worked so hard to win back, I was going to hold onto them. Because things _were _different. I was different. Brian was different. Our entire lives were different, in so many ways. We both smiled more...laughed together...and it was more like _us _and less like those two people who had suffered through months of trauma and pain. He teased me and I teased back. He kissed me and I loved every second of it. He trusted me more, and I gave him reasons to.

Four months later...and life _had _changed. And this time, it was for the better.

~.~

Brian, for his part, decided that the best possible way to handle today was with blatant overcompensation. In addition to his usual security, he texted me during his entire lunch break, called me twice, and barely left me alone all that night at the loft. For the first time in weeks, while I showered, he stood outside and "cleaned" the counter around the sink—as if Brian had ever cleaned anything in his life. With an excuse like that, there was no way he genuinely needed to be in there.

"Brian, I'm serious, if you don't fucking let me draw, I'm going to stab you with this pencil," I snapped at him finally. I was on the couch, sketchpad propped open on my lap, my pencil held dangerously tight in my fist. I'd barely sat down when Brian had shown up—big surprise—asking me what I was drawing, where my other sketchbooks were, how the sketch was coming along.

He stopped trying to peer over my shoulder and backed off. "Fine," he said coolly, with the air of one attempting to recover their facade. "Fine, I'm taking a shower."

"Fine."

So, predictably, he checked the alarm—ensuring I was well and truly sealed away in here—before heading for the bathroom.

"Christ," I muttered when I heard the water start up. "I'm fucking _fine,"_ I said to no one in particular.

When I was a kid, at my house on New Year's Eve, we'd all write down and read aloud five things that had happened in the last year that we were proud of or thankful for. The purpose, of course, was to see how much our lives had changed in the last year, how we were moving forward. Being around eleven or twelve, my list had usually consisted of things like video games or new art supplies or summer vacations. That was something about anniversaries...whether weekly or monthly or yearly...they got you thinking. Thinking about where you were back then, and the changes since. Thinking about what you wanted, and how you were going to get there, and when.

So, yeah, things had been tougher than usual today, but that was to be expected, wasn't it? And it wasn't like I was a fall down mess like I'd been four months ago—fuck, even _one _month ago. The hardest part of today had been just the knowledge of what it was. Of where _I _was. Less about the pain of what had happened then, and more about the frustration of getting over it in the here and now.

I stared down at the completed sketch before me. Or at least, what _should_ have been a completed sketch. I sighed, flipped the page closed on Brian's bare, muscled form, and tossed the sketchpad aside.

I left it there on the couch, and went to find my therapy log in the bedroom. I found this week's page and date, and inside Friday's little box, wrote: _I said I was fine, and I meant it. _

~.~

"I thought we'd leave in about a half an hour," said Brian. He'd been working on his computer for the last hour or so, but he was stretching now, standing up. It was Saturday, and we were due at Debbie's for the usual weekly dinner. "I'm going to take a shower."

I nodded, flicking the edge of my sketchpad. "Have you seen my one blue shirt with the collar? I wanted to wear it."

"Check the closet," he replied, rather unhelpfully. I rolled my eyes, but got up anyway.

I looked through all our clothes twice, including his side, before I was forced to admit that it just wasn't in there. I began pulling open drawers next, sifting through my ratty paint-shirts and Brian's perfectly good but out-of-date-by-six-months-or-so-clothes in the top drawer in case one of us had thrown it in there by mistake. We apparently hadn't, but the next drawer contained jeans, and I highly doubted it had gotten tossed in there, so I skipped to the third drawer down. Most of my dressier clothes were in there, rather than in the closet, since I didn't wear mine nearly as much as Brian wore his suits. I hadn't even touched this drawer in months. The shirt I was looking for was relatively nice, however, (even label-conscious Brian approved), so it wasn't too unlikely that he would have thrown it in with some of my more formal clothing without thinking.

I flipped through a few formal jackets at the top, and was about to give up, when the edge of something small and white caught my eye. I flung a shirt out of the way and discovered that it was a pill bottle. Pulling aside several pairs of pants, shirts, and a few ugly ties, I realized there were several of them. Everything from antidepressants, to my sleeping pills, to a bottle of Advil. So _this _was where he'd been hiding everything

I picked up the bottle of antidepressants, turning it wonderingly in my hand. Brian hadn't wasted much time in hiding my medicine from me the day we'd picked it up, and I hadn't even seen the pill bottles since then. I'd bet my art supplies that, up until a few weeks ago, he'd hidden our razor in here, too.

Suddenly, my heart leapt into my throat: the water had stopped in the bathroom.

Completely forgetting about my long-lost shirt, I hastily began piling the clothes back into the drawer, trying to fold them as best as I could. It wasn't as though I'd done anything wrong; all I'd fucking done was go through a drawer in search of a shirt. But with the way he was about...things...I really didn't want him freaking out on me for something so stupid and trivial.

I was on the couch sketching when he came out of the bathroom, desperately trying to look like nothing had happened. Which was stupid, really, since nothing _had _happened. So, I'd stumbled upon the medicine my boyfriend had kept hidden from me for months, for my own good. But it wasn't like that anymore; I'd never been happy about him hiding the pills, but even I could admit that it had been for the best. Now, though...well, Daphne had been right. I was in a different place.

"Did you find your shirt?" he asked as he came down the bedroom steps, parts of his own shirt plastered to his still-damp skin.

I shook my head. "No...um...I'll just wear something different." I did my best to remain calm under his scrutiny, then let out a breath of relief when he apparently decided I was telling the truth, striding off to the kitchen.

~.~

I managed to put aside thoughts of my mysteriously disappearing shirt and Brian's personal secret pharmacy long enough to actually enjoy dinner at Deb's. There was something just so normal—if Debbie and the rest of our friends could ever really be called that—about the whole thing. Michael was finally able to corner my boyfriend long enough to engage him in a one-sided rant about his critical Spiderman versus Superman issue; Brian earned himself a smack in the head when he used a "tone" with Debbie that she apparently didn't appreciate; other than that, we all just sat around and feasted on the meal she and Vic had prepared while listening to Emmett chatter about his new party planning business.

There was nothing unusual about Brian keeping his hand on my knee under the table, but tonight, he kept moving it up to squeeze my thigh, right on the inside where he knew it tickled. I tried to kick him, but missed and hit Michael, so I settled for a quick pinching assault on his sides. Finally, we drew Debbie's gaze, like two misbehaving children in a restaurant, and cut it out.

He managed to slip away during the post-meal cleanup, as did Ted (who had received an unavoidable business-related call), Melanie (who had just realized she'd forgotten _her_ cell phone in the car and absolutely had to have it in case the sitter called), and Carl, who seemed to have no excuse, but just disappeared. Funnily enough, they all returned just in time for dessert.

By the end of the evening, Brian had made plans to babysit Gus the next week, Michael had invited himself over to the loft, and Debbie had forced both me and Brian to promise to call her, lest we have certain parts of our anatomy rather crudely dismembered.

"And I want to see your ass in the diner more often," she said sternly, pointing a finger at Brian, "make sure you're getting proper meals. You can't live on coffee alone."

Brian let her hassle him about his dietary habits with a minimal of returned sarcasm, but when Emmett rechristened him "Kinney McSkinny," we were all treated to a reminder of exactly why Brian was the king of being a snarky, sarcastic shit.

"Why do we go to those things again?" he moaned during the elevator ride up to the loft, his head thrown back against the wall, as though the few hours spent with our friends had drained him of all remaining energy.

"Because...you'd miss them if we didn't. And so would I," I replied. He snorted softly, but didn't deny it. And the thing about Brian was—typically—not saying no was as good as a yes.

"Do you want your pill now?" he asked as we filed back into the loft. "It's getting late."

My stomach gave a weird little flip at the thought that I could get my_ own_ pill now, if I really wanted, but I kept that particular thought to myself. It wasn't as though I couldn't always have gotten to my medicine, if I'd looked hard enough. I'd just never bothered. "Um...sure."

He waited until I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth to retrieve one of my pills from the drawer, and it was waiting for me on the counter when I came out. I grabbed my sketchpad, pulled on a pair of sweat pants, and crawled into bed. A half an hour later, I was asleep.

For the first time in a while, I hadn't put a shirt on when I'd climbed into bed. I woke up the next morning with Brian spooned behind me, his bare chest flush against my back, his arm draped over my waist. My fingers were still curled loosely around my sketchpad, flipped open to the same page I'd been pouring over the night before—the same uncompleted drawing of him.

I sighed, stirring the edge of the pages. As usual, I felt it when Brian came to, his lips pressing a good-morning kiss onto my bare shoulder.

"Morning, Sunshine," he muttered.

I stretched in his arms, my fingers curling around his, over my stomach. "Mmm...morning. It's Sunday, right?" I asked just to make sure we didn't have to fucking move, for once.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Good."

His fingers traced idle patterns into the skin of my stomach, his breath coming in steady huffs that sent bits of hair falling into my face. I had just about drifted off again when he spoke into my ear, jerking me from the comfortable embrace of sleep. "That sketch...it's good. The one of me."

"They're all of you," I snorted, which was pretty much true, especially the more recent ones. It was like, every single fucking time I sat down to draw, he was all I could see. All I could get my hand to sketch. Not that I was complaining—Brian wasn't exactly difficult to look at—but it was especially frustrating because, lately, they all had the same air of incompleteness about them, and it drove me crazy. They _should _have been complete. The pictures on those pages were exactly what I'd set out to draw. So...what was missing? Why was the artist in me crying that it ought to have something more?

"The one on the page there," he explained, gesturing at the little book still clasped in my fingers. Actually, that had been the same sketch from earlier that week, the one of him in the shower. Or at least, one of them. I'd tried on numerous occasions to finish it, but so far had been unsuccessful.

"Thanks."

We continued to just lie there in silence as he played lazily with my fingers and randomly kissed my shoulder blade, his lips always staying just a little longer than necessary. I loved the feeling of him pressed against me like this, skin against skin. He still had his boxers on, and I had my sweatpants, but we were both shirtless...I'd forgotten how good that could feel. There were a lot of things that I'd forgotten could be as amazing as they were. A lot of things to relearn, to get comfortable with. But I was working on it, and as much as it sometimes frustrated me, there seemed to be something to Brian and Kathy's suggestions to wait. It sucked, definitely, but waiting had gotten me this far, hadn't it?

As Brian kissed a little path from the back of my neck to my shoulder, it was hard to find a reason to complain.

**~. Brian .~**

I wondered precisely how long you had to be doing something on a regular basis for it to become routine.

We'd been going to therapy for over a month now. He seemed to be used to it, and it had become as much a part of my weekly schedule as dinner at Deb's, which, now that I thought about it, had become integrated right back into our lives, as well.

On Monday, three weeks after Justin had started taking his antidepressants, Kathy informed us that we could probably expect them to start taking effect within as little as a few days, or as long as a couple more weeks. She skimmed over Justin's log, reading his entries and offering a few encouraging comments on the 'one good thing a day' part of his assignment. I'd quite enjoyed reading those, myself...a hell of a lot more than I'd liked reading about his nightmares, that was for sure. Especially when these new entries were things like _I let Brian kiss me _and _I got a B+ on another school project._

As Michael had suggested, the guys all came over to the loft on Thursday night. Justin was certainly more comfortable here than anywhere else, and it showed. It wasn't exactly a night out on the town, but Emmett turned on some music, Michael and Ben brought beer in addition to my own stock, and though there was no one else around, it was a pretty convincing imitation of the bar scene. Michael, to my dismay, stumbled upon Justin's rendering of "Super Stud," who quite obviously resembled me, with the result that all four of them had made at least half a dozen cracks each about Super Stud and his—and I quote—_studly powers of studliness_, by the time they all went the fuck home. On the bright side, Justin was apparently now known as "JT," Super Stud's— and again, I quote— _blondly-adorable boyfriend of blondliness, _according to Emmett.

I advised Ted to begin drinking heavily as soon as possible.

On Friday, Mel and Linds brought Gus over for us to babysit for the day while they went to some big important wedding or funeral or bar mitzvah or some shit. I stopped listening around the point where Justin wandered down from the bedroom, his hair still wet from his early-morning shower, pulling a plain white T-shirt over his head.

The Munchers had brought over a shopping bag full of toys for him to play with while he was here, which meant that Justin and I were forced to spend four hours alternating between watching stupid kiddie shows on TV, playing with the plastic toy cars and trucks my son was partial to, and fixing him snacks of applesauce and cheese and crackers. Finally, he ended up passed out in front of the TV watching _101 Dalmatians. _

"Fuck, if I have to look at one more talking animated dog...." I muttered threateningly a few hours later, once the Munchers had left with Gus, but Justin wasn't buying it.

"Please. I saw you mouthing all the words to _Cruella DeVille." _

I glared at him. He smiled innocently. I thought about defending myself and explaining that the only reason I did know the words was because I'd seen it with my son, which always seemed to make Justin go all sentimental and admiring on me, but he was grinning in that way of his that told me that I'd already lost this one, so I didn't bother.

"Well, you knew half the mutt's names—and you don't even have a kid. That's fucking disturbing," I countered, grabbing his wrist and pulling him flush against my chest. He smirk softened into an actual smile, and he ran his hands up over my shoulders, reaching up to tuck my hair behind my ear on one side.

He rolled his eyes. "I used to watch it with Molly."

"Christ, what is it with kids and talking fleabags? It's not like Gus even understands half the actual _plot." _

Justin snorted. "You'll be praying for these days in twelve years when he's watching porn for the _non-plot. _Of course, he still has to go through the whole 'kissing is gross and girls have cooties' stage first."

"Well, they do have cooties."

He laughed, a light-hearted, beautiful sound, and nuzzled his nose against mine. "Well, luckily we don't have to worry about that."

"Luckily," I murmured in agreement, and then he was kissing me. I didn't know what it was about him—okay, that was crap. I knew exactly what it was, and why I loved kissing him so much. I could never get enough...there was no such thing as enough of him. He had always been an amazing kisser...a natural...always surpassing anyone and everyone else; that rule about only kissing him had been nothing, no sacrifice at all because, after him, no one else could compare anyway.

His lips parted against mine, granting my tongue permission to slip inside his mouth, extracting every flavor that was Justin. I didn't even realize we were moving, backing up, but suddenly the kitchen counter was digging into my waist, his arms were around my neck, pulling me down and pushing me backward all at the same time.

I broke our kiss just long enough to gently turn us around so that _he _was against the counter, lifted him up, and set him on top of it. I heard something clatter behind him, but couldn't quite bring myself to care as I moved to stand between his legs, his hands gripping my hair as I explored every already-familiar part of his mouth. I ran my hands all over him, up his thighs and down his back and between his long, blond locks.

To my surprise, I felt his legs come up to lock around my waist, pulling me closer, and fuck if I didn't just lose myself in him. He was just too good, too amazing, too _Justin, _and then it was all happening so fast and great and his hands were sliding up the front of my shirt and mine were sliding up the back of his....

He broke away suddenly, unexpectedly, but to my relief he didn't look freaked out when I opened my eyes. He was smiling softly, and, unable to resist, I pressed my forehead to his in an intimately familiar gesture, one just for us. He kissed me once more, innocently—sensually—then, forehead still nuzzling mine, his breath hot and heavy in my face—his hands slid over my shoulders, my chest, the collar of my shirt. He used to be able to undo the buttons with such expertise, but his fingers fumbled with them now, tugging them loose one by one.

He ran his hands over my shoulders again, this time beneath my sleeves, bringing the garment along and sliding it off. I didn't move, didn't know what he wanted. Didn't know if I was supposed to help, or stand perfectly still. Didn't even know what he was doing.

His face no longer carried that windswept look of passion he'd had when he'd been kissing me, but was curious, calculating...his bottom lip caught up between his teeth as he gently pulled one of my arms free from my shirt, then the other, so that I was soon standing half naked in the middle of the kitchen.

"Justin," I whispered as he leaned forward to kiss me once more. He leaned back, thoughtful, considering. "Justin, what...?"

Suddenly, one hand was gone, stretching...reaching for something, and then he had it...the sketchpad containing Super Stud and most of his other recent drawings, left on the counter the night before by Ted, once he had finished mocking my new "superhero" status. There was a pencil tucked into the rings, and he slid it out, leaning back from me and flipping pages of the little notebook.

"What are you doing?" I asked now as his legs dropped from around my waist. He didn't answer me at first, just stared down at one of his drawings, apparently seeing something that I couldn't. I waited, let him do what he needed to do.

"Damn it," he hissed suddenly, his fingers curling into a fist around his pencil. "It's not going to work. It won't fucking _work...."_

"What won't work?" I asked, laying a hand on his knee. "Justin, what are you trying to—"

"I can't fucking _finish _these!" he said heatedly, shoving the sketchpad in my face for me to look at. "I thought maybe...if I saw you...if I could actually look at you and feel you..."

"And...that won't help?" I asked cautiously. I wasn't really sure what to say or do here. When he got like this, I never knew. I was no artist—I couldn't do a thing for him when he was blocked or frustrated like this, and I hated it.

He shook his head bitterly. "It's useless. It's fucking useless," he said, and slid off the counter, brushing past me on his way to the couch. After a moment's hesitation during which I briefly considered the possibility that he'd rather be alone, I followed, his sketchpad in hand.

"Justin..." I said quietly, sitting down at the opposite end of the sofa near his feet. I touched his leg gingerly, rubbing his calf through his jeans when he didn't seem to mind. "Look...what do you need?" I asked desperately.

"I don't know," he said, his tone bursting with quiet frustration. "I _need _to finish these fucking drawings, but it's like...something's missing. I don't know what, or...."

"I'll be your model," I offered, only half-joking. To my relief, it made the corners of his mouth twitch in a reluctant smile. "Come on," I continued, encouraged, and sprawled out over the cushions in a dramatic pose, throwing my head back and closing my eyes, as if being an inhumanely gorgeous inspiration was such a burden. "Draw me." I opened one eye to see him shaking his head, a reluctant huff of laughter escaping.

After another moment of nothing, I raised my head to peer down the couch at him. "I can understand being mesmerized my by mere presence, and I sympathize, but I do have about a dozen other artists who would swallow their canvases for a chance to draw me. So if you'd like to get started...."

He snorted. "You're such a dick."

I grinned and closed my eyes again, quite enjoying the little laughs and smiles I was slowly managing to procure from him. Though I tried, it wasn't every time that I was able to pull him from these states of artistic hopelessness he seemed so prone to since the bashing. Hell, it wasn't every time that I was able to pull him from _any _state of hopelessness, and he was so often the victim of them these days. "I was lying anyway. You're the only artist I trust to do justice to such a level of perfection," I said airily.

"A dick with a big ego."

"A dick who's waiting for you to draw him," I said, begging him to take the bait...let me do this...let me help make him happy and give him what he needed. "Come on. I'll do whatever you want. I mean," I corrected myself hastily. "I'll move...however you want. I'll be your model."

He raised an eyebrow at me, but didn't make a move to get started.

"Come on," I tried one last time. "Draw me, Justin...finish your work. You know you want to."

That got him. His gaze met mine and held it for the longest moment. Then, he offered me the weakest of smiles and reached for his sketchpad again, his expression thoughtful once more.

He shifted until he was sitting cross-legged at the other end of the couch, his sketchbook in his lap. He frowned, his lip between his teeth as he considered me, sprawled out to do with what he pleased. I closed my eyes again just to avoid staring at him while he was trying to think.

"This isn't going to work," he said after a minute or two.

My eyes flew open, ready to do whatever he asked. "What do you mean? Do you want me to move, or....?"

He shook his head slowly. "No." He was moving again, this time crawling to sit just in between my feet. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of my jeans, then he crawled up my legs a bit more to unbutton my pants before moving to sit back at his end of the couch. After another minute of silent contemplation, he growled in frustration, pushing himself off the cushion and beginning to pace back and forth in front of the sofa.

"What can I do?" I asked patiently. This was one of the very worst things about all the shit he'd been through. Both times, he'd lost this...this integral part of himself that he needed more than air. I remembered the way he'd been when he'd quit art school after the bashing, that facade of reckless, upbeat optimism he'd kept up that no one in their right minds could have possibly believed. All you had to do was look in his eyes, and see that dull pain there, that deadened look. Not having that, not being that person—an _artist—_it had been killing him. He'd gone through something like that after the rape, too. He couldn't draw what he'd once been capable of. He yelled and cried and threw sketchpads and hated his life. He needed his art; he needed to be an artist, and I never knew what to do to give that back to him when he lost his way.

"Nothing," he snapped, impatient and irritated, but his frustration was directed at himself and not me. "You can't do anything..._I _can't do anything. Fuck...I just need to...."

I waited in silence while he continued to pace, sometimes muttering to himself and occasionally pausing to take in a new angle, a new position. I said nothing, did nothing—determined to be exactly what he needed right now...whatever that was.

Finally, he stopped right in front of me, scrutinizing.

"Do you need me to move?" I offered after a full two minutes of his staring.

He shook his head, a blank look coming over his features. "No," he said, his voice wavering just a little. His eyes were wide, as if he'd suddenly realized something of the utmost importance. "I need...I think I need to draw you," he said, almost wonderingly.

Right...well, wasn't that the point of this? "So, draw me," I said, nonchalant.

"No, I mean...." he took a deep breath and let it out, all previous frustration gone from his features. He ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head to the side as he continued to stare at me. I could just see his mind's eye planning every line, every curve against the white of the page. It was a look of inspiration I'd seen him wear a million times. "I need to draw _you. _I mean, like...like I used to."

I let this sink it, every implication, every possible meaning of those words. But I only came up with one; the only one he would be talking about with that waver in his voice and that uncertainty in his eyes. I slowly raised my gaze to meet his.

"Okay," I agreed, but even my own voice didn't sound quite...believing. Slowly, not quite trusting any of this, I stood up and began sliding my jeans off. Justin turned his back, flipping through pages of his sketchbook and getting situated on one of the chairs across from the sofa, deliberately not looking in my direction until what remained of my clothing had been deposited on the floor.

He'd been watching me in the shower for weeks, ogling me the way he always used to. Even now, without that thin layer of glass separating us, his eyes raked over me when he turned around, taking in everything. My first instinct, oddly enough, was to grab something to cover with...a towel or a blanket or _something..._but it was just Justin, I reminded myself, the same person he'd always been, who had seen me naked hundreds of times, and he seemed...fine, really. A little flushed, but fine.

I laid back against the couch as he picked up his sketchbook, pencil poised above the page, eyes darting between me and the paper. He took a deep breath, tongue between his teeth in concentration, but his hand quite steady as he began.

I didn't know how long I laid there, how long I let him sketch me for, but it was long enough that it allowed me the time to once again appreciate all the things I used to love about watching him draw me like this. That interest, that hunger that he had with no one and nothing else. Not just inspiration or love of art, but love of _me. _His eyes sparkled and he chewed his bottom lip, smiling occasionally for reasons I couldn't understand. Once or twice, he was forced to stop and shake out his hand, willing it to hold out just a little longer, but refusing to let me rub it. He wanted this far too much to stop now, no matter what the reason.

It took too long and yet somehow, it didn't last nearly long enough. "Finished," he announced finally, his eyes not leaving the page.

"Let me see," I demanded, reaching for my discarded clothes even as I held a hand out for his sketchpad. He admired it for just a moment more, then handed it over.

And for what seemed like the millionth time since the night I'd met him, I had my breath taken away.

**~. Justin .~**

Four months and one week after the party, I drew my boyfriend naked.

Jesus.

I really had no idea how I'd done it. Sure, I'd been admiring him for weeks in the shower, but this was...different. More. And with a much more significant payoff.

I waited until he was dressed again to kiss him, laughing lightly against his lips. He grinned and pulled me closer, his hands everywhere, his tongue in my mouth and his nose bumping affectionately against mine when we drew away for air.

Maybe four months ago, it would have been different. Drawing him naked while he was awake and aware had always been a surefire lead-in to fucking...I would have crawled between his legs, taken him into my mouth, and it would have ended with the greatest payoff imaginable.

But however ordinary that would have been four months ago...just drawing him like this was _extraordinary _now. It surpassed today's version of normality with ease.

A week ago, I'd wanted something real, something solid to prove that, four months later, I was moving forward. The first and third month milestones had both been streaked with misfortune and gloom...huge strides, just in the wrong direction. And there was some kind of irony, or symbolism, or...fuck, _something_ deep and meaningful, I was sure...that it had been around the second month-marker that Brian had found those drawings that had scared him so badly, and now here I was, taking a great step in the _other _direction, pulling myself up instead of falling, once again letting my art speak for where my mind was at.

Later in bed, my sleeping pill working its magic on my body, I laid there and stared at the drawing in my hands. The body I loved, the man I loved...perfect and amazing and beautiful. And I'd drawn him. It was like two parts of me, two of the most important parts—Brian and my art—had finally met once again, to create the happiest experience I'd had in weeks. I'd been ready—or restless, maybe—with artistic frustration. But either way it had been enough, apparently, to get me here and allow me to do this.

I traced the outline of his body with my finger, every line, deep and dark and slight and shallow, that made up his face, his hair, his shoulders, his chest, his legs, his cock. It had made my heart race just looking at him, seeing him sprawled out over the couch with no nauseous butterflies in my stomach, no pounding nerves to make me sick and make me shake and cry and break down. Because it was him, only him, and I knew that. It was safe. When I was just looking, just admiring him, there was never a chance of totally losing it, of forgetting where I was and who I was with. It was just him, all him, and the rest of it disappeared.

The last thing I remembered thinking before I fell asleep that night, still staring at my new drawing, was that it had felt amazing to complete it.

* * *

**A/N:** So, what did you think? Did that make up for the wait even just a tiny bit?


	26. Trust

**A/N: So...was that wait a little better? ;) **

**~. Justin .~**

My most recent milestone kept me happy for days. Brian finally convinced me to part with my sketchpad long enough to carefully tear out the page with my completed drawing and—my eyes about popped out of my head when I came out of the bathroom and saw it—stick it in a frame and prop it up on the nightstand as a decoration. That simple gesture alone spoke volumes more than he ever could with words about how proud he was of me.

And—something else that surprised me—I was proud of_ myself. _After all the long weeks and months of nightmares and tears and feelings of general worthlessness, I was actually proud of myself. Of something I had done. Something I had accomplished. I was really just—glad to be me, to be honest. And I was—and always would be—an artist.

A couple of times, I'd caught Brian staring at it. And for a change, I didn't think it was his own ego that kept his eyes glued to his own perfect form, but something deeper. Something we could feel changing, now had the evidence of it. Something we could sense more than see, just knew was happening all around and beneath and between us. Happening _to _us.

Maybe one of the most in-your-face signs, the kind that shocked me and shook me and took my breath away in the best possible way there was, was the day he'd finished up in the shower and come out of the bathroom, glancing over to find me absorbed in a sketch on the bed.

"Drawing my cock again?" he'd smirked. There was something gentle in his tone, something knowing. But it was that question, that fucking normal,amazing question, that had nearly turned me into a complete emotional wreck right there on the bed in front of him. He'd asked me that, with slight variations, dozens of times in the past. It was a mark of the happier lives—the simpler lives—we'd once known before all this. And he'd fucking said it again, asked me like nothing had ever happened, had ever changed, and I hated to admit even to myself that it was responsible for the burn of tears in my eyes.

"So," he said a little while later, plopping down beside me in bed, an apple in hand. He took a big, juicy bite out of it, the crunching sound right in my ear as he spooned up behind me, leaning over my shoulder to look at my newest drawing. This one was of a man I'd seen walking his dog earlier that day on the way to therapy. For some reason, I'd been inspired. "When can I expect to be asked to pose for another Justin Taylor original?"

I couldn't help but smile. "Whenever you want. But I've got to say, framing too many of your own naked portraits is a little egotistical, even for you."

He bit my earlobe playfully; I grinned, and shoved him back with my shoulder. "Not when they're celebrating artistic genius."

I pressed my lips together, trying to control my grin. I'd never understand how he always managed to make me melt, and at the same time give his compliments with that dismissive, _I-don't-do-nice _edge to his tone that was basically bullshit.

"Did you take your pill tonight?" he checked. I leaned back into his warmth, and he moved to rest his chin on my shoulder as he watched me draw.

I felt, as always at the reminder of my medicine, an uncomfortable little somersault in the pit of my stomach. I still hadn't told him about accidentally stumbling onto his secret stash of meds in the dresser drawer, and he'd still been dutifully setting them out on the counter for me every morning, and every night.

"Yeah. I should probably put this up soon, actually." My eyelids were starting to get that familiar heaviness that I knew would give way to absolute exhaustion within twenty minutes.

I felt the peck of his lips against the side of my neck, and he waited for me to put on the last finishing touches for the night before I set the sketch aside, rolled out of the middle of the bed and onto my side, and snuggled in beneath the duvet. As usual, after a moment or two, I felt Brian curl around me, smelling fresh and clean from his shower. His hair was still wet, and it was cool against my bare skin as he pressed up close.

**~. Brian .~**

He'd taken to sleeping with his shirt off at night.

He'd always liked the way the sheets felt against his bare skin, and liked the way my skin felt against his even more. Some nights, while we waited for his sleeping pill to kick in, we'd lie awake in bed and talk, arms around each other, occasionally kissing, as he drifted off to sleep.

"Lindsay called today," I informed him one Monday night. I'd come out of the bathroom to find him in bed, sketchpad propped open in his lap, drawing away. He'd drawn a few more pictures of me, but it was almost as if by drawing me the way he had the week before, by gaining that piece of himself back, he'd opened a doorway to artistic possibility. He'd been drawing almost non-stop, incessantly inspired by everything around him.

He was getting tired, though, his sleeping pill kicking in. Especially now, the lights off, his eyes closed...it wouldn't be long.

"Mmm?" he murmured, stroking light patterns into the arm I'd draped over his chest. I relished this feeling of being pressed against him, even with the two layers of clothing separating us from the waist down. I kissed his shoulder blade, something I could never quite resist doing when we were like this. I loved the sensation of pressing my lips against his skin, kissing him everywhere I could. And there weren't many places I _was _allowed to, but once or twice in the last week or so, he'd been able to let me take things a little further than usual.

"She wants us to come over for brunch this weekend." I drew my fingers lazily across his stomach, tracing little circles around his belly button. I used to love being able to worship his stomach—usually on the way to his cock; he'd always been so fucking susceptible to being teased along the way, I was rarely able to resist.

I felt his shoulder muscles tense against my chest. "Are we going?"

I pressed another kiss to his bare skin, right over the tiny, barely visible freckle marring the smooth skin of his shoulder blade. "I thought I'd leave that up to you."

He was quiet for the longest time. I was just about ready to check to see if he'd fallen asleep, when he answered me.

"Let's go."

"Are you sure?" I asked, my hand finding his and winding our fingers together, squeezing firmly.

He nodded, and I could practically see his thoughtful frown, his little lip bite as he thought it over. "Yeah," he said finally. "It'll just be them, right? Mel and Linds and Gus?"

"Just them," I promised. There was a part of me that wondered if maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it to him, after the disaster that had been our outing to Woody's a couple of weeks ago. But this wasn't like that—not so different from dinner at Deb's. Plus, it might be good for him to go out, stretch his comfort zone just a little. Just like before, he'd eventually become dissatisfied with what he had and—more importantly—what he didn't. I figured it was better for him to take another step in a relatively secure, familiar environment surrounded by his friends than some crowded bar full of strangers. I still meant what I said, about how he shouldn't push himself too hard, or too fast. But no matter how big a step back the whole Woody's fiasco had been for him, the basis of his reasoning still stood true: we were never going to get anywhere if we didn't try.

"They've never asked before," he said quietly, stretching and yawning in my arms. He would definitely be gone within a few minutes. His words were starting to drag, his body relaxing, surrounded by mine. "Not since..."

He didn't need to say it. Fuck, he _never _needed to say it. It was never a question, never forgotten. Not between us. It never would be.

"Well, they're asking now," I pointed out. It was true; they _had _stopped asking after this whole thing had blown up in all our lives. But I knew the way their minds worked, and the way _his _mind worked, and knew that whatever conclusion he was drawing in his head, it most likely wasn't matching up with their intentions. "They were just giving us time, I guess. To get our feet back on the ground."

He nodded, the movement barely detectable, except for the fact that I had my chin resting on his head. "I want to go...I mean, I'm pretty sure I can."

I smiled softly and kissed the side of his neck, never really able to get enough of him. "I know you can."

He sighed contentedly and snuggled in deeper. Five minutes later, he was sound asleep.

**~. Justin .~**

_I felt his sweet, full lips descend on me, my head rolling back as he worked his magic, leaving a deliberate mark against the pale skin of my neck. A mark that let the whole fucking world know that I was his, that he left it there in his desire for me. _

_His hands were all over me, running up my thighs and down my sides and pulling my jean-clad legs up around him. He whispered something meaningless into my ear before licking it, making me shiver. He grinned against my skin, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down onto me. _

"_Justin..." he whispered against my lips as I kissed him hungrily. "Justin..."_

_And suddenly, he pulled away, his lips abandoning mine. _

"_No," I protested, trying to drag him back down to me. I tried to open my eyes, ask him why he was going when all I wanted him to do was kiss me, but my eyelids were oddly heavy and reluctant to obey. _

"_Justin..."_

"_Don't. Don't go," I said, still trying to force my eyes open as his body retreated from mine. "Please...." I didn't want him to go yet. I didn't want him to stop. _

"_Justin!"_

Finally, my eyes snapped open. I blinked rapidly against the light assaulting them.

"Are you okay?"

I was on the couch, I realized, a sketchpad on my chest and what I assumed was a pencil poking me in the side. Brian was leaning over me, his eyes wide and full of a familiar expression of concern.

"Are you okay?" he asked again urgently, trailing his fingers gently down my arm, as though unsure if he'd be allowed.

"What?" I muttered, confused, rubbing a hand over my eyes, wondering what had happened to the bed I'd just been lying on, and why he wasn't kissing me anymore.

"You were...you were talking in your sleep," he said uncomfortably.

Finally, it registered. It had only been a dream. I frowned as it slowly came back to me...dragging out a sketchpad and drawing out here on the couch...my eyelids feeling so heavy...promising myself that I'd just close them for a minute....

"Mmm," I said, yawning. "What time is it?"

"A little after six," he answered, still peering down at me in concern.

"Ow," I said, reaching for the pencil stabbing me relentlessly in the side. I tucked it back into the rings of my sketchpad, flipping the cover closed on the drawing I'd been working on before I'd dozed off.

"You all right?" he asked as I slumped back against the couch cushion.

"Fine," I said, an unintentional edge to my voice. Of all the dreams to be woken from....

Slowly, as though not sure if I would allow it, he picked himself up from his place on the floor and perched himself on the few inches of couch cushion my ass wasn't taking up. "Another nightmare?"

I could see that haunted look settling behind his eyes, as usual, and pushed aside my own disappointment at having been shaken from the dream. He was honestly concerned about me here.

"No...no, it wasn't like that. It was good—really good."

He raised an eyebrow, obviously as surprised by this as I was. "Oh?" he asked, smiling a little as I reached for his hand, sitting up so that I could pull him down beside me. He settled in, both of us moving awkwardly so that I could lay on top of him, my leg draped between his, my fingers curled in his shirt. "What was it about?"

I smiled and kissed his chin, causing his lips to twitch upward. "This," I said, trailing a few little kisses down his jaw before pressing my lips to his. He played with the hem of my shirt as he kissed me back, his hand slipping beneath it to stroke my skin. It was even better here, I decided, in reality...never having to stop. Never having to wake up.

He kissed me softly and ran his hands down my back and over my shoulders, pulling me to him and holding me there. He tilted his head back as I left his lips to leave light, fluttering kisses over his neck and collar bone.

"What were you drawing?" he asked huskily as my forgotten sketchpad slipped off the couch and landed on the floor with a small _thud. _

"You," I smiled against his lips before kissing them soundly. "In bed. Sleeping."

He smiled, too, and returned my fervor, his tongue brushing my lips, requesting permission. "What was I wearing?"

His hands never left my back, never stopped with that familiar, soothing caress, a gentle reminder that it was only him, that I was okay, that he would take it easy. And I loved him for it.

"The sheet," I said matter-of-factly. This only made him kiss me harder, made both of us hungrier. One of his hands left my back, slipped lower, resting against the denim of my jeans. I held his face in my hands, kissing him with everything I had. He was starting to get hard; I could feel him against me. I ignored it, and kept kissing him, concentrated on the feel of his lips against mine...his hands on me...his tongue inside my mouth.

"Mmm—don't," I said, breaking away, eyes screwed shut. His hands were at my shoulders at once, bracing me, his voice desperate as he called me back to reality.

"I'm fine," I dismissed him, shaking my head to clear it. Okay, so _sometimes _we had to stop. Seeing him, drawing him, wanting him was one thing. Touching him for real, feeling him in all the places I'd once felt _them, _was quite another.

"I'm okay," I assured him, hating the fear in his eyes, the panic in his voice. Nevertheless, I pushed myself off him, not really wanting to feel him against me right now.

I wasn't going to cry. I _was not _going to cry about this. I ran a hand over my face, slumping forward, my head in my hands. There was nothing to cry _about. _I was fine. It hadn't even been a real memory this time...just a sensation, more than anything. I hated it, hated how he felt nothing like them, and yet I couldn't escape the memories. I remembered their kisses more clearly than I ever wanted to. Or—I didn't really like to think of them as kisses—they were more like vicious assaults on my unwilling mouth. I could remember their foul breath as it invaded my senses, their tongues fucking my mouth as they did the same to my body. I could remember that most of them tasted like cheap alcohol. I could remember not being allowed to breathe, and the threats growled at me that it was either their tongues down my throat, or...well, worse. Suffocation. And it was precisely that split-second sensation that would sometimes assault me when I was kissing Brian.

He was rubbing my back, telling me it was okay. And I knew it was. The sensation was gone now. As though to prove that I was truly okay, I leaned over and kissed him again...nothing really heavy, just something to prove to both of us that I was as fine as I said I was. Besides, I needed that, to have his taste as the last thing on my lips...the last sensation there.

He wouldn't do anything serious again tonight, I knew. He'd kiss me lightly and hold me later in bed, but that would be it. I'd ruined the chances of anything more happening for now, which was just another reason to hate it when I panicked. Sometimes, I could let him take things a little further. Nowhere near sex, or even mutual nudity, but I could let him run his hands all over me, pretty much wherever he liked, and sometimes, the kisses would stray just a little further down than behind my ears or my neck. I knew wasn't much by anyone else's standards—especially by our old standards—but I knew how to appreciate it, now.

He'd picked up my sketchpad from where it had fallen on the floor, and was flipping through some of the more recent drawings. I saw his eyes lingering on the last one, the one of him in bed. It wasn't finished. I'd only gotten his face and upper torso done before I'd fallen asleep, but once I was done, he would indeed be wearing only the sheet, just like I'd told him. Just the way I'd found him this morning, looking somehow erotic even in his sleep.

My stomach gave a low rumble, effectively lightening the moment and making Brian snicker.

"Shit," I said, laughing a little, too. "I was going to fix dinner."

He set the sketchpad aside. "Speaking of dinner, your mom called while you were sleeping."

"She did? What did she want?" Seeing as I spent two or three days a week over at her house as it was, I didn't hear from my mom all that much here at the loft.

"Dinner with us," he said, leaning back against the couch cushion. "This Friday. Molly's off school and spending the entire day at a friend's place, so it'll just be your mom. She said she thought she'd stop by...and she'll treat, if we want to order in."

"That's nice of her," I said honestly. "What did you tell her?"

"That I'd check with you, but that it sounded good," he said, shrugging. "Hell, it's a free meal."

I rolled my eyes, as if I hadn't noticed lately how much better he and my mom and been getting on. I wasn't sure what it was, or when it had happened, but they were actually acting as though...well, as though they liked each other. Most of the problems between them had usually revolved around my mother's attitude towards Brian, which hadn't been helped at all after the bashing. But she didn't seem to blame him for what had happened at the party; she seemed to know how essential he was to keeping me together after everything that had happened.

"Christ," he said suddenly. I looked over at him. His face was an amusing mixture of horror and hilarity. "Dinner with the mother-in-law. When the fuck did my life become a bad sitcom?"

I snorted, but couldn't quite hide my surprise at him referring to my mother as his in-law. That was basically the same as admitting what we were to each other—whatever that was. Boyfriends...partners, I supposed. Not that I expected him to start calling her "mom" or anything. We'd had dinner with her a couple weeks ago, at her place, and he'd respectfully called her "Mrs. Taylor" the entire time.

"I have dinner with _my _mother-in-law every week," I pointed out, figuring that if we were talking about in-laws, Debbie was pretty much as close as I was going to get to having one. Or at least, one either of us had anything to do with. I nearly laughed at loud at the thought of referring to Lindsay as my lesbian-in-law from now on, and, figuring that Brian probably wouldn't find this quite as funny as I did, had to bite my lip to contain my grin.

Predictably, he chose to ignore any and all implications of my statement about Debbie, and was suddenly very interested in finding the TV remote. As though I didn't know exactly what she was to him. But rather than deny the way we'd sort of integrated ourselves within each others' families, he chose to say nothing at all—which, somehow, for him—said just as much.

And speaking of Debbie... "You really should go the diner more often. Debbie's not gonna let up until you do."

We'd been over for dinner the week before, during which Brian had received a thorough ass-chewing for not stopping by more often. It was obvious she missed him, the weekly visits nothing after years of routine stops by the diner for breakfast or lunch, or a bite to eat before or after Babylon.

He shrugged, now flipping through channels on the TV.

"You could at least go for lunch," I pointed out. He hadn't been to breakfast there in months...at least, ever since he started forcing me to my mother's or Daphne's house in the mornings. There wasn't time. "Just because I can't handle it, doesn't mean you should just drop out of life."

His expression softened a little, and he tore his eyes away from the television to glance at me. "Don't worry about me, all right? You've got enough shit to deal with."

"So do you, and you still worry about me," I pointed out. "You should do more with everyone. When's the last time you saw Michael?"

"Saturday at Deb's. And the Thursday before that, when he came over here."

"Yeah, but he was _here," _I stressed. "If you want to go out more...just because I can't doesn't mean you shouldn't."

He just stared at the TV screen in an obvious dismissal of my concerns. When I continued to look at him and it became apparent that I wasn't letting this go, he sighed, put an arm around my shoulders, and pulled me close to kiss my forehead.

"Don't," he said quietly against my skin. He didn't need to elaborate; he rarely did. _Don't start this again. Don't worry over me. _I knew what he meant. "I'm fine. Look, we're going to Lindsay and Melanie's this weekend, remember?"

At the look on my face, he seemed to give in slightly. "And...I'll do something with Michael sometime this week, okay? Come watch some TV with me."

Sighing, I allowed him to pull me down on top of him again.

**~. Brian .~**

As promised, I went out with Michael on Thursday night.

I felt a little guilty, as per usual, about leaving Justin behind, but he and Daphne were ordering take-out and having dinner at her place, which assuaged my conscience a little. As much as we cared about each other and enjoyed each other's company...it didn't change the fact that there was always this _thing _between us now. It built up and simmered and bid its time until it exploded in a storm of frustration on his end when he wasn't able to do what he wanted, and desolation on my end when I had to watch it.

But with our friends, we could just...let go of it for a little while. Be free, clear our heads, and come back refreshed and ready to deal with whatever we had to.

Aside from my single drink at Woody's a few weeks prior, I hadn't had a good, strong drink in fucking forever, and was taking the opportunity to remedy that now. I wouldn't get too shit-faced—Justin would need me sober and coherent when we both got back home—but it felt good to let go just a little, as guilty as that thought made me feel. Because the truth was, things _were _getting better with him. We were back to a stage where we could usually manage a semblance of—if not happiness—then contentment and normalcy. And when we were together, that feeling doubled. At least it did for me. It was back to the point where we could actually enjoy just being ourselves and being around each other, and I loved it.

I found, however, that not getting out much meant not having that many new stories or experiences to relay that didn't involve things like sleep medication or therapy or naked drawings of me. So mostly, I sat and listened while Mikey regaled me with news about our friends that I hadn't already heard at Debbie's last dinner, about the Professor, about the comic shop and a million other trivial things that I managed a few snarky comments on, but secretly hung on every word of.

Finally, it seemed, he ran out of things to say. A first for Mikey.

"So, what about you? And Justin? How is he?"

I bit back a sigh. I knew he cared about Justin; all of our friends did. It was just that there were a million other topics we could discuss_ about_ Justin, and yet all anyone ever asked about was _that. _They didn't even really have to say it; that tone, the sympathy in their eyes when they asked about him...it said enough. They had the best of intentions, I knew, and I supposed it would be even worse if they didn't seem to care at all, but...during these moments of reprieve, these moments where he was perfectly capable of keeping himself alive and happy...the last thing I wanted to think about was _it. _

"He's doing better," I said truthfully, reaching into my pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. "He has good days...some bad days. More good than bad, lately."

Michael nodded, then—it was bound to happen eventually—managed to actually say just the right thing. "Is he still drawing you as Super-Stud?"

Okay, a very irritating, pain-in-the-ass-best-friend type of thing, but if we were discussing Justin in any way, I'd rather talk about stupid superhero sketches than the other shit.

"Oh, now he's moved on to everyone else. You're now Captain Geekwad from planet Dorkon," I snapped, but there was no spite in it.

He snorted, half indignant, half amused, and sprayed his drink everywhere as he began hacking over the counter of the bar.

"Christ. That's disgusting," I remarked, even as I thumped him on the back and grabbed a few napkins to clean up.

"Captain Geekwad," he choked, now definitely laughing. "I'm having flashbacks to the ninth grade here. Remember, Tommy Randon started calling me that after I walked into my own locker door in the hallway?"

"Yeah. Who do you think gave him the nickname?"

"Asshole," he laughed, shoving me so that I came dangerously close to falling off my stool. "That's complete bullshit. You were the one who shoved him into his gym locker for me after he stole my lunch that one day in the cafeteria."

"Christ. You were such a fucking nerd," I took a jibe at him, grinning around the cigarette in my mouth.

"Chemistry club?" he took the liberty of reminding me. Christ. Could no one let that go?

"Fuck off."

He laughed again, shaking his head, eyes softening as his snickers died away. "Still, you were always the one to stick up for me."

"Well, someone had to do it, and with your underwear pulled up over your head, you weren't exactly in the optimal position to take care of the brainless breeder bullies of shithole high yourself."

"Asshole," he said again, but grinned. He cleared his throat and gulped down some more of his beer. "Um...speaking of heroes and—and standing up to bullies...." At once, his entire demeanor seemed to shift. It was exactly the type of split-second change I'd gotten accustomed to in Justin, and it put me on edge.

"What about it?"

He looked nervous, fidgeting with the label on the bottle clutched in his hand. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes fixed on his half-empty bottle of beer.

"It's called having a cigarette," I said, exhaling a stream of smoke in demonstration.

"Not with that," he said, his voice still low and his gaze fixed anywhere but on me. I got the feeling he'd been trying to work up the nerve to say this—whatever it was—for a while. "I mean..." he took a deep breath and released it, and I bit back the urge to tell him to spit it out already. "With Carl Horvath?"

I froze, midway through a drag off my cigarette. Slowly, I let out another huff of smoke, then stubbed it out, reaching for another. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

His hands twisted around the neck of his beer bottle. "I'm talking about...last week at my mother's. You and he disappeared after dinner. And the week before that, you asked about him."

I shrugged, deciding to test how little of the truth I could get away with telling. "We weren't the only ones that disappeared. Everyone who can always snatches up the nearest excuse and bails. Beats washing dishes."

Apparently, though, I was going to have to do a little better. "For one thing, Melanie went right out to her car and came back. And we could hear Ted on his phone. You and Carl just...disappeared. And for another, you still didn't answer me about why you were asking about him a couple weeks ago."

I felt tense. I felt nervous, which was not something I dealt with well, and suddenly I wished Justin and I were at home, on the couch, watching some stupid movie. "Just drop it, Michael, all right?" I implored him, my voice low as I leaned my elbows against the bar.

"You're doing something," he said. It wasn't a question. "You're doing something to get back at that asshole, and Carl's helping. Isn't he?"

Fuck.

The first time in his life Michael decides to be observant, and it's about _this, _of all things.

"Look," he sighed, and I felt his hand on my shoulder as he leaned closer. "I know you. I know the way you work, and how you are when someone you...love...gets hurt. I've seen you in action enough times."

I forced myself to look at him. He seemed to falter for a split second, then went on, his eyes pleading with mine.

"Just...be careful, okay? Whatever you're doing...don't try to take more than you can handle. I mean, I understand—"

"Do you?" I asked coolly. There was nothing accusatory about it. Just a simple question.

He sighed again. "Okay, no. Not exactly. And we'd all like to see that asshole pay for what he did to Justin, just as much as you..."

I highly doubted that—not because I didn't think they cared, but because I was convinced that no one but Justin himself had hurt over this quite as much or the same way I did. No one wanted that fucker dead more than I did.

"But just...don't end up getting yourself in trouble. The last thing either of you needs is you getting arrested or—or thrown in jail, or..."

"I'm not going to fucking jail," I snorted. "Don't fucking worry. I'm taking the high road on this one...as much as I can." Really, I was being too merciful. Then again, anything less than unbearable torture followed by an equally painful death was too merciful, in my opinion.

He nodded, still looking slightly unconvinced. "Just promise me you'll be careful."

I shook my head, and took another drag off my cigarette. "Fine. But promise me you'll fucking relax. Look, do you really think Carl Horvath is going to go along with anything illegal?"

He seemed to think I'd made a valid point. "That's true," he muttered.

"Besides, we're not doing anything the fucker didn't already have coming to him," I said truthfully. He'd asked for everything he was going to end up with. Every single bit of it.

Michael sighed. "I believe you. I just—and I know this a little maudlin for your taste, but—I may not have been there for every second, but I've seen you both go through a lot in the past few months. And the last thing I want is for something else to come along and wreck everything. You both...you both deserve some happiness."

There was no way I was backing down. No fucking way on earth that a well-intentioned warning was going to stop me from doing what I had to do, no matter who or what it involved or who it pissed off. But even so, I could at least recognize that best friend's heart was in the right place.

I raised my mostly-empty bottle to his, clinking them together. "To happiness," I said in response to his questioning look.

"To happiness," he echoed, and took a swig from his bottle.

"And listen, Mikey," I said, lowering my voice even further. "No one hears about this. Not Ted or Emmett, not your mother, and especially not Justin," I said firmly. "If this doesn't work...if the fucker gets out of this somehow...it's just easier if no one knows."

He nodded. "I promise."

I raised an eyebrow, clinked our bottles together once more, and drained mine in one last gulp...seriously hoping that he would manage to keep this secret better than he had—oh, every other thing told to him in confidence, ever.

Well, save for one.

**~. Justin .~**

We took my mother up on her invitation for Friday night. She came over to the loft for a Thai dinner, which she tried to pay for, but Brian refused and insisted on treating her. I watched the two of them interacting, hiding a small smile. Brian really was a good son-in-law...type person.

The phone rang soon after dinner, and he politely excused himself to go answer it, claiming it was important. We'd finished with the meal and had opted to sit around and talk, but Brian's departure seemed to be the thing that sparked us into action. My mom helped me clean up while he dealt with whoever the fuck was on the phone this time.

"We should do this more often. It's nice to be able to have a conversation over dinner that I actually get to be a part of," she said, packaging up some leftovers while I wiped the table. Then, at my questioning glance, added simply, "Your sister's a lot like you were at her age."

"As in, never shuts up?"

"I was going to say _energetic, _but that works, too."

I snickered, going to rinse the sponge in the sink. "Yeah—that'd be great, Mom. For the sake of your sanity, we'll definitely have to have dinner more often."

"Maybe next week? You and Brian could stop by. We'll order something, the four of us. I have to warn you, though, the last time Brian was over for dinner, Molly couldn't stop talking about him all week. He seems to have quite the effect on my children," she mused.

I laughed. "Great. My sister is after my boyfriend." Not that I could blame her, really. No one was immune to the charms of Brian Kinney. "Bet you never thought that was a sentence you'd have to hear."

"I also never thought you could find a good Thai restaurant for that price around here, but after that meal, I stand corrected." She finished sealing the container she'd just stuffed full of food, and handed it to me. "There."

"Oh, no...you take it," I protested. "You and Molly can have it for dinner tomorrow or something."

She raised an eyebrow. "If I look in the fridge right now, will I find anything other than water and beer?"

"Um..."

"Take it."

I smiled and accepted, with a sincere, "Thanks."

She smiled back, and I moved to put the container away in the refrigerator. When I shut the door, she was standing there, an odd expression on her face, like there was something she wanted to say.

"Mom?"

She looked at me, opened her mouth, then glanced over at Brian in the bedroom, still dealing with the phone call. "He's...he's really being good to you, isn't he?" she asked finally, her voice low. Her expression was soft, her eyes oddly clear.

I nodded, wanting no mistake about that. "He's great, Mom. He's...he's done everything for me." It was completely true. I wouldn't have even been standing there in front of her if it wasn't for Brian.

She shook her head, smiling faintly. "He really...well, he really does—_love _you," she said, looking as though she couldn't quite believe the words had come out of her mouth. That made two of us.

My eyes drifted to the bedroom, where Brian stood, his back to the rest of the loft, his voice soft and low. "I know."

"I love you, too," she said, and my gaze snapped back to her.

I smiled. "You, too," I said, and suddenly I found myself wrapped up in one of those hugs that only a mother could give, not entirely sure which of us had initiated it. She squeezed me tightly and I squeezed back, holding onto each other in a way we hadn't done since that day she'd found out everything and come here in search of me, both of us crying and hurting and hugging.

Finally, we pulled away, and when I caught sight of her face, there were tears in her eyes.

"I'm fine," she dismissed my look of concern. "Just..."

I nodded, somehow just knowing exactly what she was trying to say. She took a deep breath, a clarity settling in the air between us. Fortunately, we were saved the discomfort of an overemotional moment by the reappearance of Brian, who had returned from the bedroom at last.

"Sorry. Work emergency," he explained courteously. I narrowed my eyes at the flimsy, overused-as-of-late excuse, but he didn't even look at me. "So, Mrs. Taylor, how about a drink?"

If, three years ago, someone had told me that I'd be here today, sitting with my boyfriend and my mother, having a drink (well, ice water, in my case) and a good time, I would have laughed in their face. But here we were, despite everything. And I thought at last I understood the reason behind my mother's and Brian's recent— acquaintanceship? Friendship? It wasn't only for my sake, because they knew it made me happy to see them getting along, but _because _of this whole thing. Because my mother had not only come to see what Brian was to me, but accepted that he made me happy. As for Brian...despite his estranged relationship with his own mother—or maybe because of it—he knew how much motherly love meant, knew how important my mother was to me, and therefore she was important to him, in a way.

"Well, I'd better take off," she said a couple hours later, once the sky outside the windows had darkened to a deep navy and the first few stars had begun their sweep over the night sky. "I need to get Molly from her friend's house, and hopefully get her to bed at a decent hour for her soccer game tomorrow morning," she rolled her eyes as if to express her doubt that this was ever going to happen. From what my mom had been telling us, Molly had been in this hardcore soccer phase lately, something I'd witnessed firsthand a few weeks ago at dinner. No wonder she idolized Brian, who had regaled her with stories of old soccer games, all of which, naturally, involved him singlehandedly leading his team to victory.

"Aren't you glad I was always such an angel?" I smiled innocently. She gave me this deadpanned look of disbelief that I was sure she'd perfected with Brian's help.

"I'm trying to see it," Brian added unhelpfully, squinting and frowning at me. I rolled my eyes.

"Christ, that's exactly what she's started doing," my mom said, shaking her head. "If I ever find out which one of her friends taught her to do that...."

"See? Angel," I said in satisfaction. She snorted and leaned in to kiss my cheek.

"I'll see you later, honey," she said, giving me a quick hug. "You coming over next week?"

I caught Brian's eye over her shoulder, and nodded. "Yeah. If that's okay."

She pulled back and looked me in the eye. "Always," she said firmly, then smiled, let go of my shoulders, and turned to Brian.

"I'll see you then, Brian," she said, and to my utter shock—and by the looks of it, his too—stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. She cleared her throat as she released him, and he stood there, looking alarmingly close to stunned disbelief. I wondered, if I poked him hard enough square in the forehead, if he might just fall over.

"Thank you both for dinner," she said sincerely, now gathering up her purse and grasping my hand one last time as we walked her to the door.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Taylor."

"Bye, Mom."

"Bye Brian—see you later, sweetie!" she called as the door slid shut. When I turned around, Brian was standing there, still looking a little stupefied. He shook his head a little as if to clear it, then smirked at me as I moved forward into his arms.

"Hi, _sweetie."_

I grimaced. "Don't call me that. Ever."

He grinned, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down for a searing kiss.

"What was that for?" he asked as I drew away, pressing my forehead to his.

I shrugged. "Because my mom was right."

He cupped his hand behind my neck, twisting his fingers into my hair. "Mmm...about what?"

I traced his cheek lightly with my fingers, deep hazel eyes boring into mine. "That you're so fucking good to me," I said quietly. He didn't say anything to that, but kissed me again, long and deep.

"Dinner was great," I told him when we broke away again, brushing stray locks of hair from his forehead. "And thanks for having my mom over."

He snorted. "Don't thank me. Have her over whenever."

I smiled and leaned up to kiss his chin. "She likes you."

He laughed outright at this. "I don't know if I'd go that far."

"I do," I said truthfully. "I told you what she said."

He shrugged, but I could see the slight smile struggling at the corners of his mouth. I leaned up and kissed it, pressing my lips to one corner of his mouth and then the other, and then he was capturing my lips with his and kissing me for real.

"It's true," I whispered as he slowly backed us up to lean me against the counter. I stroked his cheek as he kissed me, soft and sweet. "You're amazing. I know I never really...I mean..."

"What?" he asked, the word muffled against my lips.

I sighed, my fingers curling in his hair, my back pressed against the counter. "I never say thank you. For everything you do for me. And I know you said it's not my fault...and I guess—I mean, in a way maybe it isn't, but—I'm still sorry for putting you through this. And...so fucking grateful that you're here. And I just...I..."

"Getting sentimental on me, Sunshine?" he asked, but he smiled, his eyes expressing everything more clearly than he ever could with words. He was, after all, still Brian Kinney. But that was fine; ultimately, we came as a pair. There wasn't much that went on with his half that I didn't catch over on mine, and I recognized his look for what it was—a selfless deflection of my gratitude, a promise to always be there, as long as I needed him—and just wrapped my arms around him and kissed him until neither of us could breathe.

**~.Brian.~**

"Are you sure about this?" I asked yet again, shrugging on a shirt as he tugged on his shoes. He nodded, pulling his foot on the bed to tie the laces. "We can still cancel."

"We're supposed to be there in twenty minutes. We can't cancel now."

I frowned into the closet's full length mirror, decided I looked amazing, and turned around, sinking onto the bed beside Justin. "'Course we can cancel. Just say the word."

He shook his head. "I'm fine," he said, finishing up with his shoes and offering me a reassuring smile. "I promise."

"Still, if you need to leave..."

"I know," he said firmly, and leaned over to kiss me squarely on the lips, effectively shutting me up.

Conversationally, the ride to the Munchers was rather quiet. He filled the void with crappy music stations until finally he dug out a CD and played that instead. He didn't _seem _all that nervous, though I couldn't be sure if that was genuine confidence, or if it was all artificial, for my benefit. He'd told me not to worry, but really, he should know by now that it wasn't a reasonable request.

I led the way up to the house, asked him once more if he was sure about this, and knocked, the door swinging open a few seconds later.

"Hey," Lindsay greeted us cheerfully.

"Daddy!" Gus cried from his place on her hip, stretching his arms out towards me.

"Hey, Sonny-boy," I said, reaching out to take him into my arms. Lindsay hugged the both of us as she welcomed us inside. I tried to keep an eye on Justin over Gus's shoulder as we followed Linds into the kitchen, but he actually seemed...relaxed. So far, so good.

"Melanie's just finishing with the pancakes," Lindsay told us as we took our seats at the table, Gus in my lap.

"Ah, Kinney McSkinny," Melanie smirked, setting down a plateful of pancakes with a small _thunk. _I was going to kill Emmett for that one. Apparently, the nickname had stuck within our little circle of friends. Just what I needed. "You sure you'll be able to handle this?"

"What, a whole morning of you? Give me enough shitty coffee—and drugs—and I can survive even the worst of conditions," I said with faux pleasantness.

"Oh, here's your _shitty coffee," _Lindsay said, setting a mug of it down in front of me with an exasperated eye-roll at our usual bickering.

"Don't choke on it," Melanie warned me with sickening sweetness.

"Linds," I muttered, beckoning her closer as Mel went to check on the eggs. "There's no poison in this, is there?" I gestured to my steaming coffee mug.

She laughed and shook her head, then whispered conspiratorially, "It's the biscuits you've got to watch out for."

I nodded, and made a mental note of it.

"Hey," I said quietly, nudging Justin's foot with mine as Lindsay went to help her wife. "You okay?" I mouthed.

"Fine, but you're about to have a lap full of hot coffee."

"Shit, Gus, no!" I said, quickly grabbing the porcelain mug out of my son's hand and pushing it out of his reach. "You don't want any of that. Here's your juice...you like juice...."

Fortunately, Gus seemed to decide that he'd rather suck down grape juice than scald me with hot coffee— much, I was sure, to Melanie's displeasure. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I was almost sure she'd taught him to do that on purpose. Justin helped Lindsay set the table while Smelly Mellie herself finished up with breakfast and I helped by keeping Gus entertained, and soon the five of us were all eating and enjoying ourselves. I had to admit, the meal was good. If Mel absolutely _had _to be there, at least we got a killer breakfast out of her presence. And I really did mean _killer, _too. I was going to have to do at least an hour on the Stairmaster when I got back home.

"How are you doing?" I seized my opportunity to ask while an ill-tempered Gus pitched an unreasonable fit over his scrambled eggs.

Justin squeezed my hand under the table, both our palms sweaty by this point. The insistence of this connection between us had been the only indication that he was nervous in any way. Otherwise, he seemed as at ease as he did at Debbie's these days.

He forced himself to swallow a mouthful of bacon before answering. "Fine," he said, looking almost amused by my perpetual concern. "I'll tell you if I'm not. I promise."

I nodded, satisfied with his good mood, and went back to my eggs—declining after a moment's hesitation when Melanie offered me a biscuit.

~.~

After breakfast, Justin got up to help the Munchers clear the table. I started to help, when my son grabbed my hand and tried to drag me off, demanding "Daddy, up!" which I took to mean 'upstairs.'

"He's been waiting to show you this new toy I got him yesterday," said Lindsay, smiling warmly. "It's been his pride and joy for the last nineteen hours."

"I'm pretty sure that's a record," added Melanie.

I glanced at Justin, torn.

He caught my eye, and seemed to know exactly what I was thinking. "Go."

"Are you—"

"I'm fine. Go," he said firmly. Ignoring Melanie's expression, I pecked him on the cheek for luck and comfort and allowed my insistent son to drag me upstairs.

"Look!" he said proudly, grabbing a toy truck from his dresser. "Daddy play," he ordered in all his duckie-shirt-clad seriousness, forcing one of his toy cars in my hand.

We sat there for a while playing cars, which I'd learned from mine and Justin's experience the previous week generally just meant a lot of rolling the toys over every available surface, and occasionally making the appropriate sound of an engine roaring to life.

There was a creak at the doorway, and I looked up. Lindsay stood observing the scene before her, shoulder against the door frame.

"Never thought I'd see the day when Brian Kinney drove a beat up pick-up truck," she smirked. I opted to ignore her completely, and ran said truck playfully over my son's bare feet, making him giggle. I didn't have to look to know that Lindsay was smiling. Next second, she'd dropped down beside us.

"Can I play?" she respectfully asked of Gus.

He blinked at her, frowned at the pile of toys next to him, and chose a plastic hunk resembling a motorcycle.

"Mama's," Gus declared.

"Ooh, it is like Mama's motorcycle, isn't it?" asked Lindsay, and mimicked me by rolling it gently across his feet, making him laugh again.

I could sense it coming; I'd known Lindsay for too long and too well not to know. She'd just opened her mouth before I intercepted the conversation, turning it around effortlessly.

"So how's he been?" I asked. She looked confused for half a second, most likely because it was the very question she'd been intending to ask, herself.

She sighed, looking a little weary as Gus apparently decided that my truck wasn't cool enough, and demanded I play with a bright red car with a smiley face sticker on the hood. "Great, mostly."

"Mostly?"

"He hates daycare."

I frowned. "Endless games, toys, snacks, and naps. Give it a few years and he'll be pining for these days."

Lindsay gave a halfhearted snort. "Oh, he loves that part of it. There's just this kid he doesn't get along with."

My frown deepened. "Did you tell him the best way to deal with a bully is just to kick him in the nuts and steal his juice and cookies while he's down?"

"It's a girl. The only nuts she has—or had—were in the ice-cream cone she 'accidentally' smeared on Gus's shirt last week."

"Okay, then...pull her hair and chop the head off her Barbie while she's not looking."

She actually laughed at this. "I'm sure you were a delight to grow up with."

"Daddy!" came Gus's scolding tone. "Play!"

I quickly began to roll my new car along the floor along an invisible road; he seemed satisfied, and went back to ramming two of his own cars together in a head-on collision.

"We'll figure something out, I suppose," sighed Lindsay. "Mel tried talking to one of the assistants there. We'll try that again, and maybe talking to the girl's mother. Aside from quitting my job and staying home again, I guess we could always switch daycare centers."

At that moment, watching my son innocently rolling plastic cars and trucks over his bedroom floor, I felt a surge of mingled anger and protectiveness. It was only some Pre-K bully, I knew, but fuck....that was how these things started. You tell yourself and your kids that there are bullies everywhere, that people are just shitty to deal with sometimes, and then you end up on your knees in the middle of a parking garage clutching the bloody, lifeless body of someone you love, praying that they'll be okay. Cynical as I was on any given day, for just a second, I really fucking hated more than I ever had before how unfair life could be.

"So," Lindsay said, and I realized I'd fazed out for a moment. "How's he doing?"

It was as though she knew exactly where my head had gone; there was no need to specify who she meant.

I masked a wince as Gus rammed his truck a little too hard into my finger, my palm spread flat on the floor. "Better," I said honestly. "A lot better than he was."

Lindsay nodded. "He seems...comfortable. A lot happier than the first time he came to dinner."

I, too, recalled how tense he'd been that first time at Deb's, how he'd sucked it up and had the best time he could possibly have, but had never really _relaxed. _

"He is," I said, and at her questioning look, added, "happier."

"He's not the only one."

I glanced up at her as Gus ran his truck over her shin, apparently mistaking it for a road. I just arched an eyebrow, letting it ask the question for me. Besides, I had a feeling I already knew the answer.

"Come on," she said knowingly, a soft, gentle smile tugging at her lips. "All those weeks you'd stop by the diner, and no one knew what was really wrong, or what was going on...just that you weren't the same? And then it came out—what happened—and you still...you were different. It was almost like...like it had happened to you, too."

I'd never really considered what it all must look like from the outside, to everyone who wasn't involved in this day-to-day battle. Sure, I'd realized that I had become somewhat neglectful of my friends, that I'd become distant and almost as tortured as Justin himself at times, as he worked through months of trauma and pain with me right there beside him. I'd just never really considered it from their points of view. In a way, Lindsay was right: this had happened to the both of us.

"Sometimes things have to change," I said quietly. Sometimes there wasn't really a choice involved.

My gaze, fixed determinedly on the hunk of plastic-on-wheels in my hand, jerked up when she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

"You're full of some pretty damn impressive surprises, Kinney," she muttered so that only I could hear. "And I know I'm basically asking for some witty comment for even saying this, but...I'm proud of you. All of us—we see what you're doing for him."

"I'm not doing anything," I snapped, my tone a bit harsher than I'd meant. Justin's words of gratitude and regret from the other night came back to me, words I knew he'd meant but wished he hadn't, in a way. He didn't owe me a thing, and that included an apology. "It's just...it's not like that." No matter what they thought, hell, no matter what _he _thought...I didn't do charity. I wouldn't be here, wouldn't be doing a thing if I didn't care. If I didn't love him the way I did. If I didn't fucking _want _to be there, on some level. It was as much for me, because I'd rather live in pain with him than in emptiness without him, as it was a desperate desire to see him truly happy again.

As usual, Lindsay seemed to think she knew exactly what was going through my head. And, as usual, she probably did. "I know it's not," she said, offering me a smile. "That's what's amazing about it."

**~. Justin .~**

The day after brunch at Melanie and Lindsay's was a Monday, and with all Monday's came therapy. It was hard to believe I'd been going to Kathy for almost two months now. But I'd actually come to sort of—not really look forward to it, because honestly, it was the toughest time of the entire week—but I'd gotten more comfortable with talking to Kathy and to Brian, and even though it sometimes felt like it was tearing me apart inside to get the words out, I always felt better when I wasn't the only one with these things inside my head.

That particular Monday, I got to proudly share the new development that was brunch at Melanie and Lindsay's. Kathy seemed pleased. Brian had been even more so the day before, when I'd made it through the entire visit without freaking out. I'd actually been able to let it go, and relax, and the girls had even invited us back the next week.

Kathy had always given me "assignments" to complete during the week between sessions. Writing down dreams, rating my moods from day to day, scribbling down something that made me happy. That Monday, I got a new assignment...a two-part, two-week project.

Part one was supposed to be a letter. When I asked her what she wanted me to write about, she told me, simply, everything. Any thoughts, any emotions I hadn't been able or willing to share. She wanted one paragraph on a positive realization I'd had since since my rape, one paragraph about the most significant changes I noticed in myself lately compared to right after it had happened, and a final paragraph in which there were no rules. I was just supposed to write about anything I wanted to say, anything I wanted to get out of my head.

The second part of the assignment was supposed to be a piece of art. Creative therapy, she called it. All she asked was that it was something passionate. She didn't care what it was, how it looked, or if it was angry or happy or miserable, as long as I felt something while I was creating it. She said most people did drawings, but I was free to do whatever I liked, as long as it was something that spoke of what had happened and how I felt about it. Something final, something to get everything I felt out, and hopefully start to make some peace with what had happened.

Brian, as with most of Kathy's assignments, seemed to like both ideas.

"But—I don't know what to write," I said as we made our way back out to the jeep after our session.

He swung an arm around my shoulders as we navigated through the crowded parking lot. "Anything. That's the point. It's all about what you feel."

"But I already talked about it. I talk every week."

"Well, maybe there's something about seeing it down on paper, " said Brian, hitting the automatic lock for the jeep from his keys.

Kathy had said that a lot of people, upon completing the assignment, found that they felt as though a weight had been siphoned off their shoulders. Something about it made them think, made it sink in. I supposed Brian had a point. Clutching my therapy log tightly in my hand, I nodded in acknowledgment to what he'd said, and climbed inside the jeep.

~.~

It was late on a Tuesday night. Brian had been up working on his computer, and I'd been on the couch, working on my letter for therapy. I'd been stuck all evening on paragraph one: my realization. I'd realized a lot of things in the four-plus months since I'd been raped, most of them negative, which ruled them out as contenders for my paragraph topic. Finally, as I replayed memories and moments from the last few months in my mind, my own words and the accompanying emotions came back to me.

"_...I know you said it's not my fault...and I guess—I mean, in a way maybe it isn't..."_

In a way, it wasn't. That was the part that stuck. I'd admitted that maybe, it wasn't my fault what happened, and finally begun to see things the way Brian did, the way Kathy did. I could have been smarter—_should _have been smarter—about the whole thing. I'd made mistakes, but that didn't justify what Gary and his friends had done. It felt good, knowing that; it let me breathe a little easier.

It took me a while to get down everything I wanted to say in the exact way I wanted to say it, during which time Brian finished up at the computer, rubbing his eyes wearily, and came to join me on the couch. He turned on the TV, keeping the volume low so he wouldn't disrupt me, and after about a half an hour, he was asleep. Fuck, he must have been tired. It was late, but it wasn't _that _late. Not for someone who could go all night and still get up for work the next morning the way he'd always been able to.

I decided to grab a pillow and blanket for him and just leave him there. If he was that tired, I didn't want to wake him, and I couldn't very well carry him to bed the way he did with me.

Still, that left me with a choice. Either I could go to bed myself and take the chance that I would have one of the terrifying nightmares I was so prone to, or I could get my sleeping pill myself and hope Brian never found out.

My unease was senseless; how could he possibly find out if I went rummaging through a drawer? And what was more, so what if he did? It wasn't as though I was doing anything wrong. It was _my _medicine, and it wasn't like I was going to do anything stupid. Again. Then I remembered the look in his eyes when he'd found those drawings of my corpse...when he'd found me on the rooftop...all those times I refused to eat...and doubted that he'd see it the same way.

Still...he was sleeping on the couch. And it would only take a few seconds to get my pill from the bottom of the drawer and put everything back the way it was. He'd never have to know. So, doing my best to be exceptionally quiet, I crept into the bedroom, opened the drawer, and....

The phone rang.

I froze, praying that Brian wouldn't wake up, and cursed the next second when I saw his head pop up from behind the couch.

I knelt in front of the drawer, unmoving, as he got up and went to answer the phone. I saw the moment where he glanced back at the couch to see my abandoned notebook with my therapy letter, saw his gaze sweep the loft for me.

Shit. His eyes had found their target.

He quickly dealt with whoever was on the other line while I got the pill I'd come searching for in the first place and generally tried to appear less guilty. I was screwing the lid back on the bottle when I noticed that, despite having just renewed my prescription, it was almost empty. I snatched up the bottle of Advil he'd hidden in there, too, and shook it. Maybe three or four pills, and that was it. I checked my antidepressants. Same.

I didn't have much time to ponder this, though. He was saying goodbye to the person on the other line and hanging up, appearing suddenly, silently, at the foot of the stairs, like a villain out of an old horror movie.

"Brian—look, don't freak out, okay?" I implored him immediately, preparing to argue out my case.

"I'm not freaking out," he said, his voice cool and calm.

I didn't buy it. "You were sleeping—I just wanted my pill for tonight, and—"

"Justin," he said, taking a step forward and catching my attention. "It's okay. It's not a big deal."

When I just stared at him in confusion, he shrugged, running a hand through his hair, adorably ruffled from lying on the couch. He sighed. "I know you found them a couple weeks ago, that day we went to Debbie's."

My eyes widened. "How the fuck...?"

"The tie," he explained, now climbing the steps slowly and coming to sit on the bed next to me. "That striped tie you've got...it was moved. I would always fold it a certain way, and keep your medicine under it between two shirts. It was messed up that night when I got your pill for you."

Shit. Of course. It wasn't as though I spent a lot of time _not _under his watchful eye, but I should have realized, being _him, _that he'd arranged everything just a certain way after packing the pills in here, set it up each and every time he retrieved anything from the bottom of this drawer...a surefire way to know if I'd gone through it. It was such a paranoid-Brian-thing to do. And so was not busting me, not immediately letting on that he knew, and waiting for me to say it first, now that I thought about it.

"And...you didn't move them?" I asked slowly, shutting the drawer and going to sit beside him on the bed.

He shook his head. "I didn't move them."

For a moment, I felt elated at the idea, then I frowned. "But, why are there hardly any pills left in any of the bottles?"

He looked suddenly uncomfortable, avoiding my eyes, rubbing his neck awkwardly. "There are more," he admitted. "Just...not in the drawer."

I frowned. "So...around the loft? Hidden?" Not in one place. No way for me to get to them all, or too many, at once.

"Right."

"But you didn't move the medicine in the drawer."

"No."

"How come?"

He took a moment to answer, fidgeting with the duvet beneath his palm. "Because..." he sighed, eyes closing briefly, and finally looked at me. "I'm trying—to trust you...I _do_ trust you."

I couldn't help it. I smiled, just a little. Whatever precautions he still felt it necessary to take, he'd known that I had found my medicine, and not hidden it all immediately. Slowly but surely, I was gaining his trust back. And that fucking meant the world to me.

"You've been...different," he continued quietly. "Things are different than they were."

"And you trust me," I said softly.

He hesitated. "I'm trying," he admitted. "And—and on some level, I do. It's just...you're worth too much, Justin...to take a chance over."

I felt a lump rising in my throat, and cursed myself for being so stupid and emotional. "So...can we move them to the counter again?" I asked hopefully. It seemed we would never be over this secrecy where my medicine was concerned. When it had first happened, it had been me hiding it from him, and now...well, it was ironic how much everything had turned around since then.

He nodded, though, offering me a smile that made me melt.

He followed me out to the kitchen, the bottles of medicine in hand. A sense of triumph bubbling inside my chest, I placed each one side by side on the counter. We stood there staring at them for a moment, letting the implications of this new development sink in.

"I like this," I said, as he wrapped his arms around me and kissed my cheek. I loved this slowly deepening trust between us, the bond between us being reforged, little by little.

"Me too," he said quietly, and I could hear the sincerity in his words. It was a great feeling, being on the same page. Knowing that whatever was going on inside me, this will to live, this change that had slowly started to steal over my life...it was starting to show.

I hesitated, wondering if I was pushing my luck here, then decided to do it anyway. "Maybe...in a couple of weeks...you could get the rest of it from wherever you hid it, and put it all together."

He nodded, but I could sense his unease at the idea. "Maybe," he muttered. He sighed, his breath tickling my ear, and I felt my heart drop, just a little bit.

"Brian, you said yourself things were different."

"They are," he admitted. "I just..."

"What?"

He paused, then let out a huff of amusement. When he spoke, it was soft and deliberate. "I want you safe," he whispered. "And I want you around for a long time."

I smiled and turned to look at him over my shoulder; answering the unspoken plea, he leaned down and pressed his lips tenderly to mine. I kissed him back, and there was only the sensation of him against my lips.

"I will be."


	27. Over

**A/N: *waves nervously* Um, hey. Once again apologizing for the wait. Though I did have good reasons, if you consider being unable to access any of the documents on my computer for more than fifteen seconds at a time a good reason. Fortunately, I managed to back up all my files, and hopefully now that I've wiped out my entire hard drive and started over, my PC issues will be no more. Also, this bronchitis thing I've got has been kicking my ass for a solid week now, (I know, more excuses) but I'm finally starting to feel better, and have access to my documents once again, so _finally, _here is the next chapter of Turning Points. ****Starting.....****now. ;) **

**~. Justin .~**

Part of my most recent therapy assignment was to create something through my art that I was passionate about, something linked to what had happened to help me start putting it behind me for real. At first, I'd thought this was coming a bit late. I'd already done that a hundred times.

Then, I realized, I really hadn't.

I'd drawn angry, fearful pictures of Sapperstein and the others. I'd done dark, brooding pieces for school. I'd created desperately intense pieces that spoke of heartache and sorrow and pain. But they'd had always been forced to meet requirements for school, or been done hastily in anger and loneliness, despair and misery.

But I had never done something that spoke of closure, not the way Kathy wanted me to. She had said that the point of this was to hopefully just get it out, so that maybe I could start to move on and put it behind me. I had my doubts about how well this would work; I never had managed to rid myself of _It_ completely through my art before, but I was willing to give it a try. She had said this part of the assignment was all for me, so there was no need to bring it to the session to show her. With this in mind, I decided to drag out a canvas and paints, and see what came to me.

Ever since that day I'd drawn Brian lying naked on the couch, it was it was though an artistic floodgate had been opened. I was drawing all the time, and the sketches had less and less to do with_ It_ and more and more to do with life.

My mind, however, was as blank as my canvas as I stood in front of it, paintbrush at the ready. Closure. This was supposed to bring me closure. Something that was supposed to help me move on.

After twenty minutes, I gave up for the time being, and decided to go watch TV instead.

~.~

Saturday, as usual, was dinner at Debbie's, and on Sunday, we had brunch with Mel and Lindsay again. This time, Ted and Emmett were there, too. Brian complained when Lindsay had warned him they'd be coming, saying that he got enough of them once a week at Deb's, but he seemed to have a good time. He held my hand under the table, and I found I was able to enjoy myself.

One thing I'd been noticing recently—more and more often as the weeks wore on—was that everyone had stopped treating me so much like a fucking china doll, like I was made of glass that might shatter at any second. That sympathy in their eyes, that caution in their voices had faded out over time and given way to normalcy, to their usual sex jokes and innuendo.

The first few weeks after I'd integrated myself back among my friends, whenever one of them would make one of their remarks, Brian could be observed discreetly (or not) glaring holes in their head until they got the message and shut the fuck up. Even now, there was a suspicious lack of comments about mine and Brian's sex life, especially compared to the way everyone else's private life was basically as public as it had always been.

But even Brian himself was no longer walking on eggshells around me. There were just these little comments, things he said while alone with me. Normal things. Things he would have said before all this had happened.

One of my favorite conversations in particular happened the Sunday night after our second brunch at Mel and Lindsay's.

"What are you doing?" I asked, having come out of the bathroom to find him holding his own framed portrait, his finger tracing the corners, a look of contentment on his face. Not sure whether to be touched or amused, I sat down on the edge of the bed, tossing my T-shirt to the floor before sliding under the duvet. It was one of my favorite parts of the day—or rather, the night—lying here with him, his skin smooth against mine as he held me, just talking with him as my medication kicked in and dragged me off to sleep.

"Admiring my cock," he replied unabashedly. I snorted. Fucking egomaniac. He frowned at the picture, holding it at arm's length and then tilting it so that I could see it, too. "I don't think you made it big enough, though."

I laughed outright at that. He was messing with me; I had drawn his cock far too many times to make any miscalculations, even after all this time. "What the fuck do you see when you look in the mirror, anyway?"

He looked insulted. "The fucking truth. What the hell do you see?"

I frowned, pretending to consider this. "I see what's there. Or, in your case, what isn't."

He looked completely stunned for a whole five seconds, blinked, then adopted a look of mock outrage at what he obviously considered to be pure blasphemy.

"You're gonna fucking pay for that one," he growled, trying to appear serious, but failing miserably.

"Mmm-hmm. I'm scared," I replied in my most unconcerned voice. I yawned and reached for my sketchpad on the nightstand. I hadn't even turned back around when I felt him grab my wrist with one hand, the other launching into a tickling assault against my exposed side.

"Hey!" He'd rolled me over, pinning me to the bed with his legs as his hands located all my most ticklish spots. Even after everything, he still knew my body as well as he always had. And ever since he'd first found out all the places I was ticklish, he'd always loved that he had the power to reduce me to pathetic squeals and giggles anytime he wanted.

"Cut it out!" I gasped through my laughter, trying to shove him off. Finally, I managed to overpower his hand with two of mine, but then he had returned at my other side with his free hand, non-relenting. "Stop it!"

For a split second, he listened to the words and not the tone, the expression on my face. He stopped what he was doing and waited, a flicker of fear flashing across his face. Almost at once, though, he caught the grin on my own face, the way I was still laughing feebly and clearly not panicking for real, and dug his fingers into my most ticklish spot, making me cry out in laughter and gasp pleas for him to stop that I didn't really mean.

That little knot in my stomach, the one that faded and reappeared throughout the weeks during times like these, wondered if we'd ever be able to do something so lighthearted as this without the gravity of something infinitely more serious threaded throughout it. But at that moment, he was grinning and I was laughing, and so I forced my what-if's, my never-completely-gone fears of the future out of my mind.

"Say it," he ordered, battling with both my hands to keep his at my sides. His eyes were fixed on my face, ready to stop if so much as a shadow of unease passed over my face. But it was all just fun, just him making me laugh and playing around with each other, and the thought didn't even cross my mind to tell him to stop for real.

"Say _what?" _I demanded, and was rewarded with another tickling-assault. "No...Brian, no!"

"_Say _it," he commanded me again, and suddenly I got it.

"Okay...okay! Fuck! You're hot! Every part of you is hot, okay?

"And you drew my cock too small?"

"I—Jesus, stop it! I—okay, yeah! Yes, fine. I drew it too small."

"And I'm the hottest guy you've ever seen?"

I snorted, but wouldn't have dreamed of denying it, my gaze softening as I looked at him. "Always have been." That, and so much more.

Finally, he seemed satisfied, and after a moment's consideration, released me at last.

"Jesus, you fucker. Are you happy now?" I demanded grouchily, rubbing my sides in true drama queen fashion as I snatched my sketchpad off the nightstand like I'd set out to do in the first place.

"Very, now that we've cleared up your little delusions," he said airily. I rolled my eyes, and flipped open my sketchpad.

"I'll draw you something new," I offered. "Something to give you—_all _the parts of you—the respect they deserve."

"That's more like it."

"Something befitting a hero, perhaps?" I smirked, holding up that stupid drawing of 'Super Stud'—Brian in ridiculous, cartoonish superhero form.

He rolled his eyes. "Christ. You do know Michael's been giving me shit for that for weeks, right?"

"You'll have to mention it to him once I get done drawing _him."_

He seemed to perk up at this. "Mikey as a super-dork in a cape? So, he finally gets to live his lifelong dream."

I grinned. "Yep. He can be your sidekick." Flipping to a fresh page, I began the drawing of Michael in one corner, squinting and trying to imagine him as a cartoon.

"Give him a cape," said Brian, peering over my shoulder. "And ugly boots. And Spandex."

I snorted. "You've spent a lot of time thinking about this, haven't you?"

"More like spent way too many years suffering through Michael's comic obsession."

"Mmm," I muttered, distracted by the patterns currently flowing from my pencil tip. "So what about me?"

Brian bit his lip, obviously amused at the idea. "No cape—definitely no cape. And feel free to drape on the tight clothing, but hold off on the Spandex—leave the eighties to rest in peace."

By the time my eyelids started becoming too heavy for me to keep open, and Brian had removed the sketchbook from my hands, kissed me goodnight, and told me to get some sleep—we had three rough, cartoonish figures posing together on the page, our laughter fading away into the quiet stillness of the night. I fell asleep in the most lighthearted haze, and the sensation of Brian all around me.

~.~

The next day, a bright and cold Monday morning, brought with it the usual therapy session. I was still only about halfway done with my essay, which admittedly was turning out much longer than I'd ever expected. Kathy asked about the artistic portion of the assignment, and I told her honestly that I hadn't come up with anything yet. Brian, however, interjected that I'd drawn him a few weeks prior, and ignoring my blushing, went on to explain that I hadn't drawn him naked like that since before the party.

"Just that you were able to draw something like that is an indication that your mind is healing itself," Kathy had told me kindly. "Physically, you healed a long time ago. Now you're healing psychologically."

I wondered what exactly that meant for me, and where that left me and Brian. Months later, and I was finally starting to resemble the person I'd been before. So, what did we do with that? Where did we go from there?

Later that evening, I was on the couch, the tip of the pencil between my teeth, staring at the blank page of my sketchpad. I'd started two drawings, and ended up scrapping the both of them, irritated when my initial inspiration fizzled out and ultimately went nowhere. I had a week left to finish the 'art' part of my therapy assignment, and I still didn't have the slightest fucking clue what closure was supposed to look like on paper. My letter (with myself as the intended recipient), at least, was coming along, but _this..._I didn't fucking know how to do this.

Sighing, I decided to give up on the therapy front for now and focus on something different. Something that felt right and natural, whatever that turned out to be. I played idly with the pages of my sketchbook, thumbing through them, seeking inspiration.

I landed on the drawings from the night before. Crudely done, almost cartoonish in style: Brian, Michael, and I as roughly-sketched superheros. I couldn't help but smile, remembering how Brian had peeked over my shoulder the entire time, helping me design _Super Stud, Captain Geekwad, _and_ JT. _

Still grinning stupidly to myself at the memory, as well as the ridiculous drawings of the three of us posing on the page, I flipped to a fresh one and hesitated with my pencil over it.

It was supposed to be a doodle. A stupid, meaningless little sketch of my boyfriend as a cartoon hero. Instead, my hand seemed to have developed a mind of its own. It shaped the face...devilishly handsome, easily recognizable. Soon, I began to take more care than with the hastily-drawn features and hair from the night before; I spent a particularly long time on his eyes, one of my favorite parts of Brian. But then...this wasn't _him. _Not really, I realized, the idiotic superhero suit of 'Super Stud' flashing through my mind even as my hand recreated it. Better. Classier. Well thought out and well done.

Whoever the fuck he was, he was beautiful. All of Brian's finest features, with variations and distortions...a completely different way of drawing him. He was definitely a stud. Somehow, though, 'Super Stud' just didn't sound quite fitting for this new, more stylish, upgraded version of the cartoon.

I tapped the eraser of my pencil against the figure's broad chest, where I was planning on inscribing his initials in true superhero fashion, if I could ever think of a name. Something that fit. Something uniquely _him. _It wasn't really like me to name my drawings, but then again, I'd never really drawn an fictional figure quite like this one. He looked fierce. Strong. Whatever his name was, it had to encompass that. Shit, I sucked at this.

Sighing, I took my pencil tip in between my teeth again, and suddenly wondered what it might look like if I were to give one of the other cartoons a makeover. Stupid, and a far cry from the serious task I'd set out to do, but if I wasn't getting any inspiration as far as therapy went, I might as well enjoy myself with the aid of useless pastimes.

I set to work in the margin of space between my superhero and the edge of the page. Pretty soon, I'd remade the cartoon-figure of myself. A few weeks ago, during a visit with the guys in which they'd found the initial drawing of Super Stud, who was quite obviously based on Brian, the mocking had found its way over to me, as the character's creator. Our friends had ever so kindly invented my own imaginary cartoon-form, the MJ to Super Stud's Spider-Man, in a way. Sticking with the whole initials-as-a-name thing, they had christened me JT, Super Stud's adorable blond boyfriend. Brian had corrected neither the adorable nor the boyfriend bits of that exchange, and the memory made me smile even now.

Sticking with the name the guys had given me—really, what the fuck else was I suppose to call myself?—I carefully sketched the two letters directly beneath the figure's feet.

Well, that was...different. Brian and I converted into classy-cartoon-hero form. It was to be expected, perhaps, the inspiration being who he was—but he looked rather impressive, posing intimidatingly on the page, as though daring anyone to fuck with him. Just like Brian. Which was fitting, I supposed; to me, Brian _was _a hero. I'd told him that after the bashing, when he'd been chosen for that award for saving my life. And it was still true now. He'd deny it, I knew. The last thing Brian would ever want to be considered was heroic, but he was. He just couldn't help himself, it seemed.

I traced a finger around the chiseled face of the figure on the page in front of me. Brian—a real hero. I tossed the idea around in my head, trying to imagine what a superhero based on my boyfriend would be like.

Strong, and not just in the physical sense. Fiercely individualistic. Independent. Protective of those he cared about. Standard superhero traits, maybe, but they were all the things I loved about Brian.

Biting my lip as I considered the drawing of the two figures, side by side, I flipped to a new page, and began to draw.

**~. Brian .~**

I found him on the couch Monday night, sketching. At first, I decided to just leave him alone and let him draw, but upon closer examination, I caught the unmistakable glint of tears in his eyes. At first, I was surprised to see him crying while sketching, particularly since he was holding the sketchbook with all of the drawings I loved to look at. He hadn't picked up the dismal gray sketchpad with all of his disturbing, negative drawings in a while.

This was still known to happen from time to time, though. Sometimes, it would be about the most seemingly trivial things—things that brought reminders and memories crashing into him and breaking him down.

"You all right?" I asked, my tone gentle as I came to stand behind him, leaning over his shoulder to see what had him so upset, as well as to press a hopefully comforting kiss to his cheek.

The drawing, I saw, was of two embracing figures, one in the other's arms, seeming to levitate high above the leering crowd gathered below them.

He nodded, wiping away a few stray tears. "Fine."

"What is that?" I prompted, my arms coming to fold around his chest and shoulders. He leaned his head back as if trying to melt into me, and I took the opportunity to kiss him softly, as much as a question as for comfort. Good...he kissed back....we weren't in too much trouble here.

He shrugged. "It's just some fucked up story."

"In pictures?"

He shrugged. "I guess. I don't know. It's stupid," he said. I raised an eyebrow, waited for an explanation. He sighed. "I was trying to draw something for therapy, and instead I found those stupid drawings from last night, and I sort...made them over."

I squinted at the two prominent figures on the page. They did, in a way, resemble two of the sketches he'd done the night before as we came up with ridiculous designs to match Super-Stud's general appearance. They were just more...refined, maybe? Unlike the others, done just for the sake of goofing off artistically, he'd obviously put some real work into these.

"Impressive," I whispered. It was a full-body sketch; the darker haired figure's t-shirt was ripped strategically at the arms, revealing bulging muscles, the hair disheveled, and yet...it worked. Just sort of clicked."But...why the tears?"

In answer, he flipped a few pages back in the sketchpad. There was him—or at least, the figure resembling the cartoon that was based on him. And...men. A half a dozen men, sneering and generally looking terrifying as they bore down on the Justin-look-alike in the center of their circle, a pack of wolves around their prey.

I swallowed thickly, and he turned the page. Then the next one. Fucking disturbing. Things I didn't want to see—the Justin-figure on the ground, his clothes being torn at, men all fucking _over him—_things I'd seen in my own head for far too long to need any reminder to spark that old mental videotape back into existence. Things I knew must be as close to memories on paper as they could be in this context.

He flipped another page, featuring a scene much the same as the last, but with a crucial difference: the other figure, the one who resembled the old drawing of Super-Stud, had appeared.

Next page. He was fighting them all off single-handedly, sparing the Justin-figure from his attackers. Saving him. I knew it hadn't been his intention—had probably been the furthest thing from his mind as he drew these—but it felt like a kick to my gut that, in this case, art was certainly not imitating life. Not in the ways it counted. The ways I wished it could have turned out.

Finally, we ended up on the last page, the one he'd been working on when I'd first interrupted him. The figure of him, in Super-Stud's arms, apparently being whisked away to safety.

It was quiet for a long moment. I cleared my throat and forced words to come out. "It's..." Okay, one word. But what was I supposed to say to that? What was my reaction supposed to be, seeing what had to be his biggest regret, his most desperate wish, drawn out on paper? Hell, what was _my _biggest regret and most desperate wish on paper. The parallels weren't lost on me; this was his story as he wished it had gone, in a fictional form.

"You don't have to say anything," he assured me. "Sorry. I know it's not what you were hoping to see."

But that shouldn't matter, and I wanted to tell him so. Whatever this was...if this was some way of dealing, or whatever...he shouldn't have to apologize for not being as healed as I wanted him to be. Every piece _wasn't _going to be a gorgeous naked portrait of me—I knew that. Sometimes, they were going to be dark, they were going to be disturbing; just because he was doing better didn't mean he didn't still feel these things sometimes.

"Why am I wearing a blindfold?" I asked before I could stop myself, desperate to find something to say to break the awkwardness that had settled over us.

"Not a blindfold," he corrected, a hint of amusement in his voice. "It's a mask. Like the one I drew on Super-Stud."

Frowning, I realized it was, indeed, highly similar to the cartoon figure's raccoon-type mask. A little more carefully designed in this one, though.

"And...this is you?" I asked, tracing a finger over the outline of the figure huddled in the masked man's arms.

"It's...based on the drawing that's based on me, yeah," he explained. "His name is JT."

"After that shit Emmett came up with?"

He smiled now, something that relieved me a ridiculous amount. "What else is a fictional drawing based on me supposed to be called?"

Leaning further over the back of the couch, I gave his cheek a little nudge with my nose. "Okay, so who's that one?" I asked, gesturing to the other figure.

He hesitated, his finger lingering over the edge of the pages. "I think...well, I came up with a name—Rage."

Even without flipping back to the more disturbing scenes of his story, I recalled the ferocity, the power, the raw fucking _fury "_Rage" seemed to emit while doing everything in his power to defend "JT." Basically, the equivalent of what _I _would have done if—well, if I'd been there that night. And possibly if I possessed inhuman superpowers. It summed up perfectly what I'd been feeling, that unadulterated, intense emotion that had coursed through me like electricity when I'd found out what had happened to Justin, all those months ago. All in all, the name fit, resonating perfectly with the aura of strength emanating from the man in the sketch, the well-defined, ferocious face, the intensity of the eyes.

"_Rage," _I repeated, trying the name out on my own tongue. "Rage...I like it. Is it...is it like a story?"

He nodded slowly, the tip of his pencil caught between his teeth. "Sort of. I just..had to draw it, you know?"

"So...how's it end?"

He looked up at me. Blinked in consideration.

"I don't know yet."

No, I supposed we didn't.

**~. Justin .~**

On Wednesday, Michael came by to visit. It used to be, before, I'd always feel just a little tense, having other people inside the loft—the one haven I had. Now, it was comfortable—more than comfortable. It made it feel almost like old times.

Brian had just excused himself to go the bathroom when Michael got up to get another beer. I took a sip of my own coke, wishing for the umpteenth time that I could have a real drink instead of a soda, like a kid. But I wasn't supposed to drink with my medication, and even I had to admit it wasn't worth the risk.

"Did you do these?" came Michael's voice from the kitchen. I squinted, and saw that he was holding up one of my sketchbooks.

"Um, yeah," I said as he came nearer, the little pad of drawings in his hand. He sat down beside me again, and I saw that he was looking at one the more well-done versions of the crappy drawing of "Super Stud" that our friends had all mocked Brian about that week they'd been over here. The basic idea was the same, and I knew Michael recognized the familiar face even beneath the mask. It wasn't _quite_ Brian. Inspired by him, sure. Based on him, even. Well, him and 'Super Stud,' but then he'd basically been Brian, as well.

This particular drawing that he was looking at was the one with Rage holding JT, huddled in his arms, far out of the reach of his attackers.

"Super Stud?" Michael asked, grinning.

I let out a huff of laughter, inwardly hoping that Michael didn't give Brian too much shit over this. "I renamed him, actually. Rage."

"Rage," he muttered, almost to himself. "It's good. Do you have any more?"

I did have more. It was just...those were a little more—personal. A lot more personal, actually. "A few," I said, a little uncomfortable.

"Can I see them?"

I shrugged noncommittally—what was I supposed to say, _no you can't fucking see them?—_and he seemed to take it as an answer. I sat in tense silence, my eyes averted, knowing exactly what he was looking at every time I heard the flip of a page. I tried to force myself to relax, holding onto the fact that the drawings were completely fictional, that what he was seeing wasn't actually what had happened.

No one had been around to save me then.

"They're—"

"Not pretty," I finished when he didn't. "I know. They're not supposed to be."

I knew what was on those pages. I knew it was disturbing. Knew the ugly faces jeering from the pages of those sketchpads were the stuff from nightmares—_my _nightmares. And that was exactly why I'd had to draw them.

"Keep going," I told him quietly. I waited while he flipped through a few more pages. The ones where Rage played the hero. The ending to the mini-story I'd told in my sketchbook.

"They're good, Justin," he said softly. Finally, I forced my gaze over to him. He was staring down at the final picture again, the one he'd started on. "Really good. Is...is that supposed to be—well—you?"

I nodded. "For all intents and purposes, I guess."

"So this is...like a story," he said.

"It's my story. Sort of." It just—had a happier ending, there on paper.

I used to have this dream—the only good one I ever had about that night. Well, not _good, _exactly, at least not at first, but it ended better than the others ever had. In it, I was there, at that party as usual. All those guys were touching me, just like it really happened, trying to force me in that thing. But then suddenly, unlike in real life, Brian would be there. He'd save me, wrap his arms around me and take me home with him, and I'd actually be able to sleep for the night.

In my head, that made quite the story. If I couldn't have it as my own life, it didn't mean my fictional fantasy couldn't. And on paper, Rage never had to be too late, or too far away.

"You should do something with this," he said seriously.

I know I probably looked at him like I thought he was crazy. Honestly, I kind of did. "Like what?"

"Well...these are good," he said again, flipping through a few pages to demonstrate. "Really fucking good. You could do like a picture book or something. You know you're good enough to get something published, if you ever wanted to."

"Yeah, except...no kid in the world is going to want to read a picture book like that." Half the drawings in it disturbed _me. _Not to mention the queer factor. And then there was the fact that the entire idea was ridiculous to begin with. These were some of the most private inner workings of my mind, here. I'd actually considered using them for my "creative therapy" assignment for Kathy, but the utterly fictional tones to the story just didn't speak of "closure" to me.

"It wouldn't have to be for kids," Michael argued. "I mean...well, look at comic books. They're basically picture books, in a way."

"You're suggesting I draw a comic based on a kid who almost gets...." I let my voice trail off, unable to finish.

"I'm saying...what you have here...just looking at it like this, it already tells a good story. Add some dialogue, and you've really got something going."

Count on Michael to find something as ridiculously innocent as a comic idea in something so horrible. I was about to open my mouth and tell him point blank that he was insane, when Brian came out of the bathroom and started complaining about some new French lotion he'd been trying, and the subject was lost.

~.~

I was in bed, attempting to get in a few more sentences on my therapy essay before my medication overcame me and I was forced to sleep. Ironically, this was the easier part of the assignment Kathy had given me. Easier than actually talking about it, and easier than the art portion I was currently struggling with. It was ridiculously frustrating, considering I was an artist and it wasn't like the thing had to be a fucking Van Gogh. I'd only realized a few days prior that Kathy seemed to have timed what was supposed to be the completion of this assignment as close as possible to the five-month mark of..._It. _

Well, not _It. _As Brian often reminded me when I attempted to skirt around actually saying the word, Kathy had told us numerous times that being afraid of the name, pushing it down and hiding behind "safe," less threatening words, I was only encouraging my own mind to be afraid to face the truth of it. It was okay to use other phrases in genuine context, just not if I was using them to hide. It was like dragging out the demons of the dark, forcing them into the sunlight.

So fine. It had been almost five months since I'd been raped, and she had planned for me to finish my most current assignment within days of that anniversary. I wondered if she'd done that on purpose. The tasks she'd set me were all about closure...the essay basically detailing how far I'd come in the last few months, the artwork representing my moving on. She also said that achieving closure was often a step-by-step process that didn't happen overnight. Maybe this was her way of setting that process in motion.

I'd only been working a few minutes when Brian came out of the bathroom, clad in a pair of boxers, his hair wet from his recent shower. He'd been working most of the night on his computer; I felt like I hadn't seen him all day.

I set my partially-completed letter aside as he climbed into bed next to me, giving his head a playful shake so that I felt little droplets of water hit my bare skin.

"You're getting everything wet," I complained as he laid his cool, dripping head on my pillow. I shoved his shoulder in disgust.

"Finished with your letter yet?" he asked conversationally, relenting and settling down on his own side of the bed. I flipped my pillow over to the dry side and flopped back down on it.

"Almost. Like, half a paragraph to go."

He nodded, propping himself up on his elbow to look at me. "What about the other part? Your 'creative therapy?'"

I shrugged, my inability to draw the stupid picture I needed frustrating me to no end. "I've got this weekend," I said, which was perfectly true. Tomorrow was only Friday, but still, it felt like an excuse.

He nodded again absently, and I noticed his eyes subtly dart down my bare upper torso. I hid a private smile. He still couldn't help admiring my body, something that meant more to me than he'd ever know. If he had ever seen in me what I used to see when I looked in the mirror...I didn't know how I could have dealt with that. But he'd never thought of me as disgusting or repulsive. Those feelings of shame, of loathing...they were always entirely mine.

"What?" I asked, a little uneasy as he continued to stare. He had this vacant little smile on his face, the kind he sometimes got when he was high. I was about to ask him what he'd been smoking and if he had any more, but then he merely gave a one-shouldered shrug.

"Nothing," he said, but it was the kind of nothing that said everything he needed to say, everything he wanted me to know.

Scooting closer, I draped my arm around his bare stomach. He let me roll partially on top of him, falling backward against his pillows, and watched through half-open eyelids as I cautiously pressed a few kisses to his bare chest. When I looked up again, his eyes were closed.

It felt...weird. Nice, but in a really weird way, to have his nearly-naked body spread out beneath me like this. Slowly—so slowly—I let my lips trail tiny little kisses from his jaw to his collar bone, then dipped down a little further and kissed one of his nipples. I heard the slightest intake of breath, felt his chest shift beneath me.

So far, in the months since my rape, most of what little Brian and I had done together featured him in the lead. He'd wait for permission, wait for me to initiate things sometimes, but most of the time, it was him doing things to me. It was just easier for me to deal with, in most ways. Although, lying on top of him like this...I found I kind of liked procuring these little reactions from him. I remembered what it felt like the few times he'd allowed me to top him—the way it had made me feel so sexy and loved and trusted. I remembered that it used to make me feel powerful—not because it was me dominating him, but because I always saw it as my chance to give him what he gave to me. It was my chance to show him how fucking much I loved him, my turn to make him feel good, to give as good as I got. It was similar to how I felt now, pressing kisses to his skin as he lay beneath me.

I hesitated, breathing in the scent of his overpriced soap, and gently closed my lips around his nipple, my tongue poking out to tease him. I kissed back up over his pecs, up his collar bone, his jaw, and finally reached his lips. He kissed me back, but otherwise he didn't move, lying perfectly still, as though I were a skittish animal that he was afraid to spook.

I let our mouths fuse together, our kisses sloppy and wet and wonderful. He stroked my tongue languidly with his own, and soon, it seemed, he couldn't help himself, and had moved a hand up to tangle in my hair.

It wasn't long before we started getting carried away—or at least, as carried away as we could these days. Which I supposed wouldn't qualify as many other peoples' definitions of the phrase, but to us—to me—it was like my senses were exploding. His hands were all over me, slow and soothing, making my skin tingle beneath his palms. I tried to give him as much back, tried to make him feel all the amazing things I was feeling, courtesy of him. I shifted a little on top of him, trying to gain better leverage, and he moaned as I apparently brushed against him just the right way. Sure enough, I could feel him getting hard through his boxers.

His hands alternated between twisting themselves in my hair, running up and down my back, and sliding lower to cup my ass gently through my sweat pants, just resting there. Once or twice, I felt his fingers straying towards the waistband of my pants, as though itching to take them off me. He wouldn't, I knew. He'd wait for me to make the first move. But I had to admit, he wasn't alone in such desires.

It was times like these that were the worst to deal with. These moments where I wanted nothing more than to be able to pull down his shorts and suck him and make him come. Where I wanted him to roll me over, slide inside me, and fuck me until we both passed out. So much as one wrong move, however, a whisper of a memory, and it would all come crashing down.

I broke away, tearing my lips from his.

**~. Brian .~**

He pushed away without warning, the warmth of his lips vanishing suddenly.

A sick feeling of dread was coiled in my stomach, ready to spring free and flood my chest with guilt and pain and panic or whatever else as, fearing the worst, I opened my eyes. He was raised above me slightly, looking almost...confused.

"Justin—" I started to say.

"Sorry," he interrupted, shaking his head a little as if to clear it. I brushed my fingers against the smooth skin of his arm, soothing him.

"You all right?" I asked softly.

"Fine," he grumbled in what was about the least convincing tone ever.

"Justin—" I began again, but, looking irritated, he merely pushed himself off me and fell back against his own pillow with a frustrated noise somewhere between a huff and a grunt.

"Sorry," he said again, running his hands over his eyes. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I said, reaching over to trail my fingers across his arm again.

Finally, he removed his hands from his face and looked at me, letting out a sigh. "I'm okay," he said. "I am."

"Then...what?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

I fought down my initial frustration at that answer, and tried to take the calmer approach. "Don't fucking do that, Justin. You know I hate that."

Another glance in my direction. He let out a sigh that sounded like a curse. "I know...I know, Brian. Fuck, I just—do have any idea how fucking frustrating this is?"

My neglected cock throbbed against the material of my boxers. Yeah, I had some idea. I decided to keep that particular comment to myself, however; it was the last fucking thing he needed. I'd never dream of doing that to him. He felt angry and guilty enough. "What?" I prompted.

"_This," _he answered, gesturing vaguely at the both of us.

"Well, I was sort of under the impression that it was a good thing, but—"

"It _is," _he said. "It's just...we do these things—and I can't fucking do anything _else, _you know? I just wanted to...make you feel..._good." _

I frowned, stroking his arm gently with my thumb. "Trust me, Justin. You make me feel fucking great." Hell, all he had to do was look down to see the tent in my boxers to know that.

"I mean for _real," _he explained as I apparently failed to grasp what he was saying. "I just...I _want _to. You know? I _want _to. So much. But then...it fucking terrifies me."

I nodded, trying to understand how it must feel to want something so much and yet be so afraid of it at the same time. I couldn't—not the way he did. But I tried.

"I don't—when we do these things, Justin, I don't...expect anything," I said awkwardly.

He nodded, still looking quite miserable. "I know," he said, but his voice had lost its edge. "But I think—I think _I _expect something," he said thoughtfully, frowning.

"You do," I agreed. I let my fingers leave his arm and reached up to stroke his hair, brushing it gently from his forehead. "You expect too much of yourself." He expected to be the person he was before. He expected to kiss me one day, and suddenly have everything be back to normal. He expected things I wasn't sure either of should ever anticipate again. No matter how far we came—no matter how much normalcy we managed to weave back into our lives—things would never be the same. Things happened. Life changed. And sometimes that change was permanent.

He shook his head. "It's just—every time I think I can just put it behind me and move on—it hits me all over again that's not that easy. That things aren't the same, and I can't just have what I want and have it be over with—I mean, it's been almost _five months, _Brian. And I fucking _know _it takes time, so don't say it," he warned, sounding far too weary for someone so young and good and innocent.

"Wasn't planning to," I lied. He snorted in obvious disbelief.

Okay, shit. So he was frustrated once again with the lack of certain intimate activities in our lives. He missed me, he'd made that clear before. But he'd been doing so much fucking better, had gotten so much more physically comfortable with me the last couple weeks, that I wondered if he really was ready to try something more.

"Well...do you _want _to try something?" I asked slowly.

He frowned. "I—I mean, in a way, I do. I want to have my life back. But...as an offer..." he sighed. "No. I can't. There's no way—I just can't."

I let this sink in. Okay...so psychologically, he wasn't ready for anything too heavy. He still got flashes of memories when we were kissing, and still lost it occasionally. Not as severely or as often as he used to, but that thing inside him, holding him back—it was still very much a part of his life, a major part of any and all physical activity he participated in. It lurked in the back of his mind, waiting to pounce whenever he started to get too comfortable.

Maybe, though...maybe that didn't mean we couldn't try _anything _else.

"Well, then—do you want to just try something...more?"

This got his attention. He looked over at me, curiosity written in his expression. "What do you mean, 'more?'"

I shrugged. "You tell me. What do you want?"

He was silent for a moment as he considered this. "I can't have what I want," he said sadly after a few minutes.

"All right. Then, anything...else? Anything you think you can handle?" We'd been doing more together lately as it was. Just because we couldn't get each other off didn't mean we couldn't take things a step further if he felt he was ready. Of course, there would be limits and boundaries set by both of us, but we could take things slow, ease him into this.

"Like _what?" _he asked, his tone laced with desperation.

I considered this. "You're okay with kissing me, right?" Every now and then, there was the occasional freak-out, the resultant need to stop what we were doing until he regained his sense of reality and a reign over his emotions. But most of the time, we could—and did—kiss ourselves breathless.

He shrugged. "Yeah. Most of the time."

"And you're okay with this?" I asked, gesturing at the both of us, him in his sweatpants and me in my boxers. "Us...together like this?"

"Yeah," he said.

"So, maybe it's time to give yourself a little more than that." His face was a mixture of caution and curiosity as I leaned over to brush my lips against his in a gentle, initial kiss. As usual with us, it started to heat up, and while we kept the pace slow, there was no denying that usual urgency, that passion that was always waiting to spark into ignition between us.

Soon, every cell in my body was exploding in elation as my senses were overwhelmed with him, his touch, his taste, his scent, those little breathy gasps that I treasured as rewards every time I found his favorite spot on his neck or behind his ear, sucking and kissing him everywhere I knew he liked.

I let my hands roam over him...up and down his arms, not restraining, just touching, down his chest and over his hips. We broke away, our foreheads together, our eyes inches from each others'.

"Trust me?" It was as much a request as a question.

He gave a barely perceptible jerk of his head that I couldn't have missed if I'd had my eyes closed.

Slowly, I let my hand drift down where I wanted it, at the edge of the waistband of his sweatpants. I slipped my fingers just inside, testing his reaction.

He tensed up completely, going rigid beneath me. "Breathe. Relax," I ordered gently, and tugged at his pants. I lifted myself off him, my eyes fixed on his, ready for any sign of panic. I gave his waistband another tug, and he took the hint and lifted his hips, never dropping my gaze.

My heart slammed wildly against my ribcage, hardly able to believe he was letting me do this. It didn't feel sexual anymore, not really; it was a different type of intimacy. Trust and nerves and excitement all rolled up into one—something we were sharing together, and for once, he couldn't claim that I didn't understand.

Soon, I was freeing his feet from the tangled confines of his pants, and he was lying on the bed in nothing but his underwear, for the first time in nearly five fucking months. He was nothing short of beautiful, his hair fanning out across the pillow, his pale skin contrasting with the navy sheets. It wasn't as though I hadn't seen him naked since it had happened, but lying here before me like this, being able to truly touch him, was almost too much.

I trailed a hand gently up his side, his neck, across his cheek, before leaning down to kiss him chastely, my lips barely brushing his. "Okay?" I whispered, my breath catching in my throat. Jesus Christ. This was almost like being naked with him. Almost. Fuck, we used to sleep like this together.

"Yeah," he breathed, lips melting into mine once again. Nothing heavy or fiery, nothing too passionate, just a simple kiss of innocence, of trust, of love. He leaned his forehead against mine, nuzzling my face. I lowered myself down next to him, curling close, kissing his shoulder gently.

I draped my leg over his, feeling the soft silken texture of his skin against nearly every inch of mine. I didn't want to take it too far tonight; just that he was lying in bed with me wearing next to nothing at all was enough. After a while, I felt his body relax, and we drifted off to sleep, still tangled together.

**~. Justin .~**

When you go to sleep with some type of fear, or unease, or dread on the outskirts of your mind, there's something in your subconscious that greets you with an overall sensation of wrongness before you even open your eyes. Sure enough, one of the first things detected, once my sleepy haze had begun to clear and logical thought was somewhat possible, was the realization of what today was.

Friday. Shit. It was five months ago today.

It occurred to me that maybe...maybe this didn't have to be a bad thing, per se. So, it was the anniversary of that night. A night five months ago today. Shit, had it really been that long? Sometimes, it seemed like it had happened forever ago, and sometimes, it seemed like just a couple weeks.

But it was done, wasn't it? It had been five months ago...a long time ago, really...and maybe that wasn't such a horrible thing.

I didn't have too long to ponder it, though; I could feel Brian stirring behind me, and that was when I got my second metaphorical kick in the gut. He shifted, the bare skin of his leg brushing against mine.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit, I was almost...oh my God, I was almost naked with him. I wasn't sure whether to be scared or happy about that. Maybe both. Yeah, both seemed to be the reaction my stomach was settling on. Kind of a jumpy, nervous, excited feeling. He had a leg pressed in between mine, and just feeling him like that, hardly anything between us, set my heart into a frenzy.

He was curled up around me, his breath coming in warm little huffs over my neck. Slowly, he joined me in the world of the living, his fingers caressing my stomach soothingly. It felt so fucking...bare. His skin against mine, mine against the sheets. So naked and natural and...nice. Really nice.

"Hey," he said softly, pressing a kiss to my neck. This...the way he was holding me...it was somewhat erotic, I supposed, but more than that—it was comforting. The way he'd wrapped himself around me, it felt almost like a hug.

"Hey," I whispered back, surrendering to the weight of my eyelids for just a few minutes more.

"You okay?" he asked. If I had a nickel for every time he'd asked me that in the last five months, I'd be a rich, rich man.

"Yeah. I'm good." There was just something so—pleasant—about this. Scary, but the good kind of scary. Like the kind you feel right before you get on a roller-coaster or something...a thrill, completely worth the nerves.

I wished I could be naked with him for real. I wished I had the guts to strip us down and snuggle up to him and let him hold me. It wasn't that I didn't trust him—shit, he could be inside me with my hands tied to the bed and I knew he'd still stop if I told him to—it was just...that fucking fear. More than nerves, enough to ruin the good parts of the thrill. Enough to make me sick to my stomach. Enough to make me remember. I hated that. I hated that it had been five months ago, and I was still afraid of...what? Sex? Cock? Certainly not Brian, just...the whole experience, I guess.

But lying here, two thin layers fabric separating us, not quite _feeling _him against me...it was okay._ I_ was okay. And Jesus Christ. I didn't know if it was the emotional significance of the day, or the feeling of being pressed against him like this, so close to him, but it made feel like crying. Pathetic. I let out a shaky breath, and his hand stilled on the skin of my stomach. He leaned over me, trying to catch a glimpse of my face. "Justin—"

"I'm fine," I said, dismissing his concerns at once and turning in his arms to face him. Suppressing my own urge to roll my eyes at both my ridiculously overwhelming emotions and his caution, I kissed him, reassuring us both. "I am. I'm okay," I repeated firmly.

He let his hand trail up and down my arm, his lips turning gently upward. "You going to be all right today?" he asked after a little while. I nodded.

"Yeah. I'm going to finish up my letter while I'm at Daphne's, I think. And then maybe tonight I can do that drawing."

He nodded, his eyes falling closed, never ceasing that soothing stroking of my arm. We laid there, not kissing or even really talking, just lying there together. I wondered what he was thinking about. If he was thinking about any one of the million things going through _my _mind. His skin against mine, sleeping almost naked with him all night long, that kiss last night, my letter for therapy, my 'creative therapy,' my drawings, five month anniversaries.

"Can you believe it?" I whispered, as if afraid the morning might shatter if I spoke too loud. "It's been...it's been five months today, Brian." I'd had this—this _thing—_this weight on my shoulders, this dictator of my life, for five months. It didn't seem real.

"We'll have to make an appointment in a few weeks," he said, just as quietly. "Your last round of tests."

Shit. That's right. One month to go, and I could finally be sure of my HIV status. I wondered if that would feel even more like closure, if the tests came back negative...the last possible thing that could physically hurt me from that night, the last threat, eradicated.

"It doesn't seem...right, though, you know?" I asked as Brian continued to trace light patterns into my skin. "This thing—I mean, it _happened. _It's just this...this _thing _in my life that happened to me five months ago." I knew I probably wasn't making any sense. I didn't know how to explain it to him, but for the first time, it was like I was looking at it from an objective point of view. I was seeing this, not as the pain I lived inside, but as an actual thing that had occurred in my life five months ago today. It was part of my past, just like high school and my childhood and my eighth birthday and SATs and even the bashing, in a way.

"It's over," I whispered, something akin to numb disbelief spreading throughout my chest. That _thing, _that night...it was over.

"Yeah," he breathed, squeezing me a little tighter. "It's all over, Justin." I wondered if his own mind was adding on the last three words that mine was. _Let it go. _

That party—what had happened—it was all in the past. Had been for five months. And that was exactly what my project for 'creative therapy' was supposed to represent...it was a form of closure. There were, naturally, parts that still haunted me, parts that affected my day to day life. It was these parts that were responsible for the barrier currently between me and Brian—both figuratively and literally. It was only over if we let it go—or at least, tried. There were some things I was sure I would never be able to really move on from_. _What had happened...it could never be erased from my past, and so it would never be erased from the present, even years into the future.

But the point was, I fucking _had _a future. I fucking had a present, and it wasn't in that sling. It wasn't with _Them,_ it wasn't back in that hell I'd been bound in five months ago today. _That _was over. And for the first time—lying here with Brian, skin against skin and loving it—it really_ felt _like it. It was part of my past and always would be, but here, today...I had something more important in my life.

**~. Brian .~**

It was Friday morning when it hit me.

I mean, it _really _fucking hit me. And by the sound of it, it had hit him pretty hard, too.

We'd gotten up. Justin had made us toast for breakfast. He'd taken his antidepressant from the little bottle on the counter top. I'd driven him to Daphne's, and went to work.

I'd just turned on my computer when a little bell-sound went off, a notice popping up on the computer screen about a meeting. For a good thirty seconds, all I could do was stare at the little date/time/note format of the notice.

It had been five months. Five fucking months ago today.

Of course, I'd known it, and I'd thought I was prepared. Turns out I could be pretty fucking wrong on a surprising amount of levels where some things were concerned. I'd thought after the two-month anniversary, and then the third, and then the fourth, that these things would stop taking me by surprise, kicking me in the gut with enough force to make me nauseous. But it just...it wasn't quite computing. Every day, it was just _life. _Just a part of _our _lives, now. And suddenly I was looking at the date and realizing what it _was _and that this had been our lives for five months. Maybe that was what he'd meant today, about it being _over. _And it was. All over. It was just a memory now. Everything we dealt with, fought against...it was all a memory of something that had happened five months ago.

Shit.

Another four weeks and we'd know for sure if Justin was HIV negative.

Another four weeks, and it would be half a fucking _year _we'd spent like this.

Four months since I'd found out. Three months since I'd found those horrible drawings he'd done of himself. Two months since he'd tried to kill himself. Two months since we'd started therapy with Kathy. A few weeks since he'd done his first naked drawing of me since the attack.

Five months. Five entire months.

He could go out now. He could go to his friends' places, or his mother's house. But he couldn't go out for any prolonged period of time in crowds, surrounded by strangers.

He could kiss me now, too. Real, actual kisses. The kind we used to be capable of...before. We still hadn't even come close to sex yet, but what we'd done the night before—sleeping together with only the thinnest layers of fabric to separate us—that had been a huge step for him. It was amazing how much of a difference the lack of his usual sweatpants made.

His medicine remained out on the counter. I still had some of it stashed away, so that he could never get to too much of it at once, but I was finding that my excuses for this were becoming thinner and thinner. He'd known for weeks where it all was, stashed away in that drawer, and he had never made a move to get to it until that night he'd wanted his sleeping pill after I'd dozed off on the couch.

I meant what I'd told him; I trusted him, I really did. It was just—I also really fucking loved him. I could admit that. I loved him, and in cases like these, love outweighed trust. Intellectually, I knew I was safe in trusting him with his life. Emotionally—I kind of just wanted to shove him inside a bubble and not let anything touch him ever again.

I wondered what I was going to do when he started _really _getting better. Like, well enough to go out on his own on a regular basis. And he'd want to—that was Justin, independent to a fault, which was exactly what had gotten us here in the first place. Eventually, he'd start going places on his own, or wanting to stay at the loft by himself, and I...well, I didn't know how I was going to deal with that. Worrying about him. Feeling terrified every time I had to watch him leave. I wondered if I'd ever feel comfortable with that, knowing he was alone, without anyone to watch over him every second he spent out of my sight. Knowing that anything could happen, anything could send us crashing right back to where we were. Hell, it had happened once before, hadn't it? He'd been doing so much fucking better after the bashing, and then—then _this _had happened. That fucking party had happened, and changed everything. Destroyed everything.

These were all my own problems, though. It was all my shit to deal with, not his. Maybe—and I couldn't actually believe this thought was even crossing my mind—but maybe I could talk to Kathy about this or something. How to let go of my fierce desire to protect him from everything, that guilt whenever I couldn't. I couldn't save him all the time, and I knew he wouldn't even want me to. Sometimes, yes, and I would never lose my hatred of seeing him in pain, but I couldn't protect him from life. I'd already failed twice in the past. Maybe that was something else I needed to talk to her about—that weight that sometimes settled in my gut, those voices in my head that told me it was my fault he'd gotten hurt. I knew it wasn't true. I knew it on a logical level. But I could never quite forget the crack of that bat, the feeling of him practically collapsing in my arms as I dragged him back from the edge of that rooftop.

_You weren't too late that time, _a voice seemed to whisper to me. No. I had fucking been there that time. And he was still here, and still breathing, sitting at Daphne's and probably working on that essay thing for his Monday deadline.

His reaction to that particular assignment itself was testament to how much further along he was than I had a feeling actual letter would turn out to be. Two months ago, it would have been hell for him to pour his soul out like this. From what I had seen of his letter, it was nearly three pages long, front and back, and he wasn't even finished yet. Apparently there was quite a lot he'd still needed to get out of his head. Something about seeing it all down on paper, in words that he'd written—words that he truly felt the power of—seemed to have helped. Made it final. Got it out.

And then there was the second part of the task Kathy had set him. The artwork. Something passionate. Something that represented closure. Oddly enough, this part of the assignment seemed to present the problem. I'd seen him draw plenty of passionate things since his rape. Not passionate in a good way, but he'd certainly been _feeling _when he'd done them.

Closure. Kathy wanted him to start putting this behind him for real, wanted him to begin moving on with his life in a way he hadn't managed to do before. And slowly but surely, day by day, he was. It had happened, it was in the past and it was horrible, but we were dealing with it. He'd never forget it—I wasn't naive enough to believe he ever would—but life was different now.

Life was _his _again.

~.~

On Saturday night, we had our usual dinner over at Debbie's. Michael, to my amazement, appeared to have kept his mouth shut so far about our conversation at Woody's concerning my little revenge scheme I was currently working on, with assistance from Carl. I could feel Mikey's eyes boring into me during the post-meal clean up, as though waiting to see if I'd sneak off with the good detective right under everyone's noses. Well, it wouldn't be the first time. He seemed to realize how serious I'd been when I'd asked him not to say anything to anyone, however, and I was sure if he'd told anyone else, I would have heard about it. I wanted it kept on the down low for as long as possible, particularly from Justin. The timing had to be right when he found out what was going on, and it just...wasn't there yet.

For now, he had other things to concern himself with. He'd finished his therapy essay the Friday before at Daphne's, and spent the majority of Sunday afternoon—the day before his Monday deadline—in a rather foul mood. He still hadn't been able to force a masterpiece out of his hand, though I'd reminded him several times that it didn't have to be a fucking Picasso, just...art. He knew art.

"You don't get it," he'd muttered when I'd told him this, running a hand through his hair. "It's not just about the _art, _Brian. It's about what the art _says."_

I'd decided, good intentions aside, that it was probably best that I leave him alone after that. He hadn't sounded angry, merely a bit frustrated, but I didn't know art the way he did, nor did I know anything about how to make a piece of art _say _something.

It was around four that afternoon when he retreated to the bedroom, sketchpad in hand, and around six in the evening when I resigned myself to interrupting his efforts to ask what he wanted for dinner.

"Chinese sound good? I'm in the mood," I said, staring at him from the top of the steps. He was sitting cross legged, propped up against some pillows. He didn't take his eyes off his work, didn't even glance at me.

"You go ahead. I'm not hungry."

It had been months since I'd last heard that, since I'd had that little bubble of dread form inside my stomach at his words.

"You need to eat, Justin," I said firmly, taking another step towards him. Still, he didn't take his eyes off his drawing.

"Yeah—later," he said distractedly. "I promise."

He was staring at his work with a burning intensity in his eyes, his lip between his teeth. I recognized that look, and relaxed a bit. He sometimes got this way about his art—always had, even before the bashing. It was just a very Justin thing to do, to shut out the world until it was only him, a pencil, and the image inside his head as he scratched it onto the page.

I came a little closer, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. "You thought of something to draw?"

He nodded, and finally, his pencil stopped. He pressed his lips together, considering the sketch for a few seconds more, then handed it over to me.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking _shit. _

"_Us?"_

My heart was suddenly thumping rather quickly, something suspiciously like longing spreading through my chest. My mouth was dry as I stared down at his drawing, and I decided then that it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. All the famous artists in the world, living or dead, had nothing on Justin, on this drawing. Suddenly it seemed like the most precious thing I'd ever held, other than Justin himself.

He was beside me, still staring at the drawing in contemplation. He ran a finger along the line of my bare leg on the page, thrown over his own. Jesus. A fucking drawing—no matter how damn sensual or beautiful or reminiscent it was—should not be fucking effecting me like this.

But still....

Justin. Was drawing. Sex.

Fucking _sex. _Real sex, not the horrible, nightmarish imitation he'd been put through at that party. He was drawing me and him and us. He was drawing us together.

The drawing sort of reminded me of our "second first time." The one after the bashing, both of us on our sides, entwined together. I wondered if that was his intention. Christ, I just couldn't wrap my mind around it...he was drawing _sex scenes _now? My heart beat even faster against my chest. Any faster or harder and it would end up breaking a rib. Or perhaps just bursting right out of my body.

But _Jesus Christ _this was huge. He was thinking about sex and it had nothing to do with creepy men glaring or laughing or leering at him. For once, it had nothing to do with Sapperstein, and everything to do with me. With the both of us, the way it should be. The way we belonged.

"Holy fuck. That's...that's really fucking good, Justin," I said, more than a little awed. He took the sketchpad gently from my fingers, still staring at it, looking rather pleased with himself. "So, this is...this is it? The one for therapy?"

He nodded. "I think so. I think—I mean—well, it's where I want to end up," he said, his tone hesitant, almost sheepish. "I mean...the point of the assignment is about closure—to help me start putting this all behind me, and—"

"And that would be the ultimate sign that you've moved on," I finished for him. That made sense. A lot of sense. He'd been brutally robbed of every sense of self he'd ever possessed when they'd forced him into sex that night. It made sense, to truly feel as though he'd moved on, that a willing sexual encounter would bring him that sense of closure. It would mean he'd finally regained the last piece of what they'd stolen from him, and come full circle.

I nodded, fighting the lump that had found its way into my throat. I cursed it, cursed my lesbionic emotions as they betrayed me. But it was like—well, it was _everything. _It was everything they'd taken, everything we no longer had, all summed up in a single drawing. It was about more than sex—about so much more than getting off. It was about putting the past behind us. It was about moving on, about _closure..._everything Kathy had intended.

"I want it," I said, the words out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"Sex?"

"The drawing," I corrected. "When you're done. I want to frame it."

"Brian, I _know_ how much you love having naked pictures of yourself around, but...."

I rolled my eyes. "If it means that much to you, we'll take the other one of me down and put this one there instead. I just...I want this." I wanted this reminder. No matter how much it hurt to know how far we still had to go, I wanted to be able to look at this every day and remember that we always had something worth fighting for. I could live without fucking him—this wasn't about that—this was about just being _us _again. Us, together, the way we were in that drawing. The way we were meant to be with each other. I craved that, _needed _that, and so did he, even if he couldn't quite reach out and grasp it yet.

He looked a little surprised at my rather vehement insistence, but smiled in placation. "Okay...okay, it's yours. Just let me finish it up."

I nodded, content with this plan. Somehow, that drawing, seeing there on paper what was obviously inside his head...it meant more than I could ever say. It meant _hope. _It meant having that happiness back that we had lost. It meant salvation. It meant that someday, in time...things would be more than okay.

Life would be ours again, in every way.


	28. Enough

**A/N: Hope everyone has a happy Thanksgiving :D **

**~. Justin .~**

I spent a lot of time staring at that drawing. The one of Brian and I having sex, our bodies entwined together on the page. It was my most treasured desire, and artistically, it showed.

As promised, I'd given it to him once it was finished, and though he'd said he would be replacing the framed portrait of a naked him with the new one, the picture now sat in a brand new, elegant silver frame in the bedroom. I had to admit, it looked really...right...in our room. It was_ us..._all and only us.

Brian had told me that he'd removed the old drawing from its frame and put it with some of my other artwork, limiting the number of naked pictures of himself he had put up in our room. However, a few days later while searching for a pencil in the desk, I found the thing, still framed, inside a drawer. As much shit as I gave him for it, though, I knew it really had nothing to do with admiring his own body, perfect as it was. He clung to these little mementos, proof that things were so much better than they were before. That our lives had stopped kicking the shit out of us and settled down a little, into something almost resembling normalcy.

As it was, I found our version of "normalcy" pretty damn extraordinary.

It was like a test, almost. A game. A dare, if only in my own mind. How much could I risk? How much could I take? I wanted Brian, wanted things to be the way they used to, more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life.

Brian, for his part, seemed perfectly satisfied with what we'd been doing. He was happy with anything I could give him, which led me to the conclusion that, maybe, I was just being greedy. Whereas I always seemed to want more, he knew how to appreciate each and every moment we shared for what it was. And I appreciated it, too—it was just that it also reminded me of all we didn't have. All I still wanted.

It was ironic when I considered that, before all this, sex used to be our area of expertise, and all I'd wanted from him was confirmation of what I was already almost sure of: that he loved me. Now, I had more confirmation than I'd ever wanted, as he forced himself through months of pain right along with me for a second time, determined never to let me go through any of it alone, while our sex life had come to an abrupt stop.

Looking back, now, it seemed almost ludicrous, how scared I used to be of him finding out, that first month I'd tried so hard to keep it hidden. I knew I'd been dealing with a lot of self-deprecating emotions back then, but after all he'd done for me, the way things were now...it just made me realize how ridiculous those fears had really been. Like when you're a kid and terrified of the dark...you're so scared of the shadows, until your parents turn on the light and you see how stupid you were being all along. Brian loved me; I knew that. I knew it was far more than a physical thing. I knew there had to be some underlying frustration—or at the very least, some sense of longing on his part—but he was just so patient, so ready to let things work out for themselves, let _me _work things out myself. Instead, I was the one pining for what we used to have, hating it when it felt so far away. Seeing it there on paper, though, that part of our lives, the way they once were...it gave me hope that felt less distant, more substantial, as though I could just reach out and touch it and have it be mine.

Monday was my deadline for both my essay and my piece of art for "creative therapy." I didn't actually have to show Kathy the drawing, but I did have to describe the main idea of it to her, and tell her why I thought it signified closure. I didn't blush once, instead feeling something distinctly like the warmth of pride spreading out from my chest, down to the tips of my toes. She also took my essay from me near the end of the session, saying that she would read it this week and discuss it with me next Monday.

Things were fairly easy with us, the first few days after that. Brian was pretty much ecstatic over my most recent developments, and I had to admit, having these new little things in our lives was pretty damn great. Every night, we went to bed with that picture on the nightstand, and fell asleep curled together, skin on skin, wearing nothing but underwear. Sometimes, I'd lay draped across him, or else he'd press himself against me, his back to my chest, holding me tight. It felt so good, so bare and natural and wonderful, and I loved it. I loved _him, _touching him and being surrounded by him, and really being able to feel it. I loved that it felt real, and that it was all mine and his and ours. Finally, we had something that didn't belonged to _Them. _

I'd even drawn a few more sketches of Brian and me, in rather intimate positions. He especially liked the one with us face to face, my hands in his hair, his body above mine, our lips crushed desperately together. I wanted more than anything to have that, the way I knew that felt, kissing him as he pushed inside me and made me feel the most amazing things, both physically and emotionally. It was the most intense, incredible feeling I knew.

I'd drawn other things, too. Those drawings I'd done of Brian as the superhero named Rage...I'd done quite of few of those. I'd drawn more of the intensely disturbing scenes, but I'd also done several much more pleasant ones, including Rage whisking away with JT in his arms, carrying him back to his superhero "lair" (didn't they all have lairs?) to care for him there. I'd drawn Rage as I observed Brian in real life: comforting JT and healing him the way I wished I was able to let Brian heal me. Jokingly, Brian said that even in fictional form, we looked pretty damn hot, and I agreed.

However, one of the most difficult things about my "recovery" – a word Kathy was prone to use during our sessions— remained. The frustration, like something alive, was always just beneath my skin. It wavered and lessened, sometimes, but there was also always this tension, a need to escape and free myself from this. Sometimes, I could mollify it with Brian's kisses and touches, or working on a drawing, but it never really let up completely, never really went away. It was always there, waiting to flare back into existence when I just couldn't let go and have what I wanted.

I supposed what sparked this newest wave of intense internal frustration was the appearance of Michael, Ben, Ted, and Emmett at the loft one night. They'd brought beer, which I couldn't have anyway, and was forced to politely decline every time they offered me one. I could sense the questions on the tip of their tongues, but none of them asked. I did see Ben's eyes catch the pill bottles on the counter, though, as he went to get another beer from the fridge. I was pretty sure he was the only one to notice, but I did wonder if he'd consider it my business and not mention it, or if he'd tell Michael, and in doing so, basically inform all of Pittsburgh that I was on medication.

All in all, though, we laughed, we joked, we talked, we gossiped...and by the end of the evening I was in a rather lighthearted mood. Which was ironic, considering the state I'd eventually ended up in. The kicker was that I'd felt pretty good up until the point where one of them had mentioned Woody's in passing, and I'd felt my stomach drop. It wasn't as though I didn't really know it, because I did. It just hadn't really hit _m_e until that point. Hadn't really sunk in.

They were there because of me. Because I was the fragile little basket case that couldn't stand to meet with them in public, and was forced to resort to private gatherings at home in order to enjoy a night with my friends.

I tried to shake these thoughts from my head. I really did. I knew Brian would only point out that the reason they came by is because they cared about me, and wanted me to feel comfortable, but I had a feeling that would only make it worse.

Maybe I really was just being greedy and ungrateful. Things at the loft were a lot better now than they'd been in a long, long time...about five months, actually. But still, I had started to relish the snippets of freedom, the evenings at Debbie's place for dinner, or Sunday brunch with Mel and Linds. Sometimes, I'd just be overcome with the desire to get _out. _To do something more than watch TV or sketch or eat take out on the floor. By now, the guy at the video store addressed Brian by name, the two of us knew the TV guide by heart, and we'd discovered at least five new shows to watch, even including a few we both enjoyed. I loved the loft—it was my home—but sometimes it was nice to just get out and have fun. I mean, even Brian couldn't make much of an argument about that. It wasn't like it was just my irritation at not being able to get out on principal, it was my frustration because I really _wanted _to. I wanted my life back...I wanted to _have _a life again.

I did my best, however, to keep this from Brian, not wanting to hear his usual assurances that everything would be okay in time or whatever the fuck else. That night in bed, after the guys had all gone home, I laid there next to him, his body curling along mine. I could feel his cock through the fabric of our boxers, pressing against me.

I wouldn't have even had that, wouldn't have been able to lie there with him like that...if I hadn't taken a little chance, right? Yeah, it had been Brian's idea, but I had gone along with it, with these intensely pleasurable results. I had taken a risk, and just sort of..._pushed. _Pushed myself, my boundaries. And I had handled it just fine. Sometimes, waiting just didn't have the same satisfactory payoff as taking what you wanted, when you wanted it.

It took a couple days for me to work up the nerve to even make the suggestion. It was a Wednesday night; Brian had picked me up from Daphne's place an hour earlier, and so far, we still hadn't made any plans for dinner. Well, _he _hadn't; I had devised my own plans inside my head, and was still battling with the nerves preventing me from setting said plans into motion.

"I was thinking I'd order Thai tonight. Sound good?" Brian asked finally, flipping through his mail over at the counter.

I took a deep breath, barely glancing up from the TV, and didn't answer. I couldn't remember the last time it had been this hard to open my mouth and say something. Well, I could, but...that was all in the past now. And this was different than not wanting to talk about the details of what had happened to me. This was volunteering myself for something I knew I wanted, but was afraid to ask for.

"Or Chinese," he suggested, apparently picking up on my lack of enthusiasm with this idea. I opened my mouth, intending on answering, but nothing came out. He frowned. "Or...what? Mexican? I would suggest Italian, but Debbie's already force fed us the entire country's supply of spaghetti and lasagna as it is."

I tried to crack a smile, but couldn't quite pull it off. "Um...actually...." I began anxiously. "I was thinking maybe...pizza."

"Interesting...I think Italy might still have a few of those," said Brian. "Did you have any particular place in mind?" He'd come to join me in the living room, now, and had flopped down at the other end of the couch, glancing from me to the TV and back, clearly perplexed by my odd behavior. I swallowed hard, and tried to bring myself to return the favor of eye contact. Asking what I was about to ask was taking every ounce of courage and grit I had; looking at him only seemed to remind me that I had something far safer right here.

"Um...I was thinking...maybe that little restaurant with the really good salad you liked?" I suggested. Whispers of doubt and memories of the last time I'd tried something like this nagged at me, begging me not to do this. I shoved them aside, and let the bubble of courage I'd mustered up inside me speak for itself.

Brian's brow furrowed as he racked his brains to remember the aforementioned exquisite salad dish. "That one with that waiter that made Emmett look butch?" he asked finally.

"Yeah."

"They were pretty good," he agreed. "But I don't think they deliver."

I took one last deep breath, then took the plunge, feeling strangely as though I were sealing my own fate. "I know."

It was quiet for a second as he let this sink in. "So...you want me to go pick it up?" he asked slowly.

I knew he knew what I meant. But I also knew he wouldn't assume, would wait until I said it. "I want us to go out to dinner." Finally, I chanced a glance at him. He was looking at me, hesitation written all over his face.

"It's not like Woody's," I said truthfully. "That place only ever has like, three customers at a time. It's always really quiet." Quiet, and mellow, and just what I needed.

He was nodding, obviously hesitant but hopefully willing to give it a try. "You sure?"

"Yeah," I said, trying to inject as much confidence into my answer as possible. "I'm sure." I knew it hurt him, maybe more than it even hurt me, when I couldn't deal and suffered a setback. He hated to see me crying, or scared, or frustrated. But the thing was, it frustrated me _not _taking those steps, not pushing myself on occasion, too. Sometimes I had to, to get the things I truly wanted. Sometimes it was worth it. Brian himself was testament to that.

He smiled softly, uncertainly, but quickly shaped it into a look that told me I had him. "Then...let's go."

~.~

The restaurant was quiet, just as I'd expected, very...atmospheric. Not exactly a five star restaurant, but the lighting was dark and the decor classy, and though Brian had always taken care to mock it thoroughly for the hell of it, it struck a balance between fancy and comfortable that I appreciated.

I'd grown increasingly nervous the whole way there, all the while trying to remind myself that this was nothing like the whole Woody's debacle. That had been over a month ago, in a noisy, crowded bar, while I was scared and alone in a bathroom without Brian. He wouldn't be letting me out of his sight tonight, I knew, which was fine by me. We were putting more than just dinner on the line by doing this—or at least I was.

The flamboyantly gay waiter that Brian apparently remembered the place by wasn't there this time; instead, we got some young, curly-haired woman in a green and white uniform to show us to our table. She glanced once at my death-grip on Brian's arm, then led us to our seats, well removed from the two or three other customers in the place. Our waitress came by to take our orders, and all the while, Brian held my hand. He ordered some expensive pasta dish, while I ordered a small personal-sized pepperoni pizza that I knew he'd probably end up eating when I took home the leftovers.

Our food came, we dined, and I was fine. Unlike at Woody's, the only person I really had to speak to besides Brian was the waitress...a mousy brunette, small and quiet and very non-intimidating. No great group of friends. No burly guys hitting on me. Just a quiet dinner with my boyfriend. It was almost like we were the only ones there, which suited me just fine. We dropped hands to eat, but he kept his foot entwined with mine under our tiny table, and somehow, I managed to feel safe and free at the same time. It was a small step, but I had taken it.

The loft, once we'd returned with a box of Brian's leftovers, seemed to have lost its air of confinement. I had proved that I _was _able to get out and push myself a little, and that was enough, at least for now. It felt like _breathing, _and kept the loft a haven rather than a prison, when I could leave it at will.

"That was great," I said, collapsing on the bed and moaning a little when my stomach protested the action. "I'm so fucking full."

"You should be. You ate the whole fucking thing," said Brian, coming to flop down beside me with a little groan of his own.

"Correction: I ate _half _of the whole fucking thing. _You _finished it off," I reminded him. Funny, really, how he forgot about that part.

"Yeah, but you had half of mine."

"I never said I didn't. I just said I didn't eat the whole pizza," I defended myself. Okay, so the reason he was able to steal my food off my plate at all was most likely because I'd been preoccupied at the time with getting a bite of his pasta, which had looked incredibly appetizing. He laughed, and a comfortable silence seemed to settle between us, lying there together on the bed, too full to move.

"That was fun," he said quietly after a few moments.

"Yeah. It was," I agreed. With a grunt, I rolled over onto my side, propping myself up on my elbow to look at him. "Do you want to maybe...do it again sometime? Maybe next week or something?" Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, but this time I thought it might have more to do with excitement than nerves. I'd actually _done it. _I'd gone out to eat with Brian, and though he'd been there the entire time and I'd barely let go of him at all, I'd still gotten out of the loft and done something just for the sake of having a good time.

"Go out?" he asked. A small smile was forming on his lips. "I think we can do that."

I smiled, pleased, and laid back down again, rather exhausted. What was it about good food that did that to you? Or maybe it was just when you ate way, way too much of it. "Mmm...thanks," I murmured sleepily, allowing my eyes to drift close.

"For?"

"For dinner...for everything." _For being there, for trusting my decisions, for letting me have this. _

"I told you before—"

"Not to thank you," I cut him off. "I know. But...you always know what's good for me, you know? You know when to be there, and when to just...let things happen."

"This is an awful lot of analytical sentimentality just for dinner, Sunshine."

I rolled my eyes, then, deciding I'd rather be more physically sentimental than "analytically" so, I rolled myself over with another groan, and crawled onto his chest. If I couldn't thank him verbally, then I at least wanted to thank him in a way we both knew how to appreciate. Instead of opening his eyes or smiling at me or kissing me, however, he just groaned, his hands at my hips. "Christ. You can't do that right now." Yeah, way to ruin the mood, Brian.

I laughed, though, and rolled back off before I made him sick. "That's what happens when you steal your boyfriend's dinner," I said loftily, pushing myself off the bed with no small amount of effort.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, his eyes now open and following me on my way to the bathroom.

I turned back to look at him from the doorway, still sprawled out on the bed, his legs dangling off the edge of it, looking as though he'd be happy to never have to move again. "To take a shower while you decide how many miles on the Stairmaster you're going to have to do to work off all my pizza." We'd certainly passed up Brian's seven-o'-clock-mark while at the restaurant, but it hadn't exactly stopped him from eating the delicious, tempting carbs. Or even slowing down, really. We'd been having too much fun and enjoying this rare treat too much for him to worry about that stupid rule.

He gave another groan, running his hands over his face. "Fuck it," he said decidedly. "I'll worry about it tomorrow."

"Good idea."

"Let's watch that stupid movie you made me rent before they start charging us late fees."

"Also a good idea."

I took a shower while he continued to lie there in his misery, having showered before we'd gone out. Then, as planned, I grabbed a few blankets to join him on the couch for our movie and a night of relaxation, both of us too full to do anything else.

I'd first mentioned the "stupid movie," as Brian so kindly referred to it, a few weeks ago after seeing a commercial for it on TV. Despite never having seen the thing, Brian had mocked it ruthlessly, complaining about the declining standards of film and suggesting the writers, producers, directors, and whoever else was adequately involved in the making of a movie with such a ridiculous plot had to have been on crack for the entire job.

So, naturally, he fucking loved it.

"Told you," I said for the millionth time as we stumbled into bed together. I felt the still-fresh thrill as Brian pulled the duvet over our nearly naked bodies, the heat radiating from him keeping me warmer than the blanket could ever hope to. "Told you you'd love it." After all the shit I'd put up with from him about the damn movie, I couldn't resist rubbing it in a little. Or a lot.

"I said it wasn't _horrible," _he said, also for the millionth time, exasperation dripping from his tone. "I never said I liked it, or even that it was good." Stubborn asshole.

"You thought it was hilarious. Admit it."

"I said it had _some _comedic elements that—"

He stopped there, however, probably because I'd suddenly burst into laughter.

"_What?" _he asked, raising an eyebrow at me, clearly alarmed.

I shook my head, rolling closer to him. "You'll do anything to keep from admitting when you totally love something, won't you?"

His tongue came out to lick at his lips, his eyes hovering on mine in the dark. "I resent that," he said quietly.

Catching his meaning, I felt something warm and tingly spreading up from my chest that was suspiciously sentimental—or, as he'd put it, lesbionic—and kissed him to keep from smiling too big.

We really didn't do too much when we were like this, nearly naked with each other. It was mostly Brian's rule, but I went along with it without protest, grateful for the easy way out. It was just too nerve-wracking like this, so vulnerable and bare and open with him. He would sometimes kiss me a little bit, and hold me, but we'd never do anything really heavy without a more definite barrier between us. He seemed to get that I still needed it.

I didn't really want to stop, though, our tongues tangling together, soft and sweet. It felt good and I liked it and I loved the way he was holding me, his arms around my back, his every muscle against mine.

"You realize," I said, a bit breathlessly, unable to help myself. Sometimes he was just too easy. "That you basically just treated me to dinner and a movie?"

He snorted, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like the word 'twat,' but then he was kissing me again and I didn't really care. I knew he'd had fun tonight, and so had I. It had been nice to get out of the loft for a while with him, just the two of us.

Before long, my sleeping pill kicked in, overcoming me without much trouble. I fell asleep, still curled close to Brian, my head buried in his neck.

**~. Brian .~**

Two days later, and I still couldn't get over the fact that we'd gone out to dinner Wednesday night. What was more, I couldn't believe he'd actually enjoyed it as much as he did. He'd held my hand tightly, and kept his foot wrapped around mine under the table as we ate, but otherwise, he'd seemed okay. No, it wasn't Woody's or the diner or even any place we typically frequented—or used to—but it was some place besides the loft or his friends' places, and that in itself was a monumental step for him. I'd had a lot of fun with him, getting out and doing something that felt...normal. Honestly, I couldn't wait to do it again.

However, rivaling even the happiness I felt at this new freedom we'd so recently attained, were these drawings he'd been doing, these amazing drawings of the two of us. He'd done a couple more, each as breathtaking as the first. I still couldn't wrap my mind around the idea of Justin actually drawing sex. It filled me with this burning, joyous feeling that I couldn't pretend wasn't at least partially hope and longing.

It was just, seeing those...it was a light at the end of the tunnel, a whispered reassurance that things might someday be okay for him again, for _us. _Maybe someday he'd recover that part of himself—one could only hope. So yeah, I kept the one he'd done of me, the first time he'd drawn me naked since he'd gotten hurt. And yes, I had our other one framed, the therapy assignment meant to signify closure. I liked them. Sue me.

On Saturday, three days after our little dinner outing, we had our typical dinner at Deb's with our friends.

Well, typical but for one way.

Justin, Michael, and Vic had all just gotten up to help Deb with the rather exceptional amount of desserts she'd prepared for this evening. According to Vic, she'd bought some new recipe book that she'd decided to try out on all of us. Oh joy.

"Brian, can I talk to you for a minute?" Lindsay pulled me aside as I fished a cigarette out of my pocket, intending on "rescuing" Justin and pulling him outside with me for a smoke. I saw her catch Mel's eye, and shoved the cigarette back in my pocket; apparently, smoking was going to have to wait. "Listen, Mel and I were wondering if we could ask a favor."

"What, donating my sperm wasn't enough?" I joked. "Is this favor going to involve jerking off?"

She grimaced, clearly finding the idea rather disconcerting, and shook her head. "Uh, no. I was actually wondering if maybe...well, I told you we were having problems with Gus at daycare."

"Is that little brat still giving him shit?" I asked, feeling something suspiciously like protectiveness flooding through me. Honestly, I'd thought the Munchers could handle some pre-K kid; obviously, I had either underestimated the kid, or overestimated the fully grown dykes that were my son's mothers, though I supposed that really wasn't fair. Parents—at least good parents—always tried to protect their kids, and I knew Linds and Melanie would do anything for Gus. Mothers couldn't always protect their sons, I thought, pushing away unexpectedly wistful thoughts of a distraught Jennifer, first ordering me to stay away from her son, then imploring me to take him and heal him when she was sure I was the only one who could.

"Unfortunately. We talked to the teachers, the director, the kid's parents...they're not handling it. No one is. And apparently, the girl is the owners' niece, so it's not likely they'll kick her out," Lindsay said bitterly. "It's to the point where Gus doesn't even want to go there anymore...I mean, he _really _doesn't want to go. He pitches a fit every time we have to drop him off, he won't let any of the teachers there have anything to do with him to calm him down...he screams bloody murder whenever Mel or I walk out the door and leave him there," she sighed, looking suddenly weary as she pushed her hair out of her eyes.

I could see how this was a problem; however, I wasn't sure what exactly there was for me to do about it. "And you want me to do...what?"

"Well...I want to enroll him in a new daycare center," she explained. "Mel and I are checking into a few places. But until then...I hate to force Gus to put up with it any longer than he has to. If you heard him screaming when we drop him off...he hates it, Brian."

I felt a wave of sympathy tug at my heartstrings at the thought of my son screaming and crying, so deeply upset, but I still didn't see exactly where I came in. "So, what do you want me to do? Recommend a daycare center?" Well, okay, I could Google as well as the next guy.

"Not exactly," she said. "Actually...I was wondering what Justin was doing during the day? If he has school, or...?"

I frowned, now even more confused. How was Justin involved in this? "A couple days a week. Why?"

"Well...I was wondering if he might be up for babysitting once or twice a week?" she winced, her words tumbling out. "I've got sitters lined up for most days, but it's been difficult, to say the least. And with Mel and I both working...well, like I said, it only be once or twice a week, and not for very long. Just until we can make more permanent arrangements."

"All right, but...why are you asking me? Shouldn't you be asking Justin?"

She suddenly looked rather uncomfortable. "I will. We just...wanted to check with you, to make sure he'd be up for it first."

I nodded, quite understanding this, and appreciating it. She was far more likely to get an honest answer out of me than Justin about this. "Honestly, I think he'd love that." He'd relish the chance to stay home all day by himself. Well, not completely by himself, but he'd be the one doing the watching instead of being watched over by everyone else. And I'd be fine with that, as well. I knew there was no chance of him trying anything while he was in charge of caring for my son.

Lindsay looked relieved. "Great!" she said breathlessly, a relieved smile spreading across her face. "I'll tell Mel, and we'll ask Justin if he'd be interested."

I nodded once again, and she beamed at me, following me back to the table to try out one of Debbie's lavish new desserts.

~.~

Justin, just as I'd suspected, absolutely loved the idea of babysitting Gus. He'd looked a little nervous when Mel and Lindsay asked him, glancing at me as though worried I might refuse to let him do it. But it wasn't like he would be home all day on his own; leaving him with Gus was just as safe as leaving him with his mother or Daphne, just in a different way.

Gus, too, loved the idea. Or so it seemed when the girls brought him over to the loft, bright and early Friday morning. For all the screaming fits he supposedly threw after being dropped off at daycare, he seemed quite at home here. Lindsay rattled off instructions to Justin, and Mel dug a list of emergency numbers out of her purse for him. They left soon after for work, and then it was time for me, too, to leave.

Despite knowing, in my head, that both Justin and Gus were perfectly safe with each other, I still felt a little uneasy about leaving Justin in the loft like this without me. I hadn't done so in months, and with good reason. But I forced myself to relax, kissed them both goodbye, made Justin promise to call if he needed anything, and headed off to work.

I had to restrain myself from calling him several times throughout the day. I figured he had enough on his hands, with a kid to look after, but I still texted him during my lunch break. All in all, I appreciated the opportunity the Munchers had given us...had given him. I knew I needed to start trying to trust Justin, really trust him again. He couldn't stay with his mother and Daphne forever. And this was the perfect way to start working up to that.

Lindsay was at the loft when I arrived, helping Justin pack the last of Gus's toys into his bag. I noticed Gus's "favorite" new toy he'd shown me a few weeks ago was nowhere to be seen. Apparently, prized possessions just didn't last as long as they used to.

"Hey, Sonny Boy," I said, scooping my son into my arms as he came toddling toward me. He laughed and made a grab at my car keys, still in my hand, clearly fascinated with the noise they made. I went to kiss Justin hello, feeling relief set in as I took in his perfectly alive and well appearance. Lindsay smirked knowingly, and I flipped her off behind Gus's back.

"Thank you so much again, Justin," she said, her voice gushing with sincerity. "You have no idea how much Mel and I appreciate this."

"It was no problem," Justin assured her. "I love Gus. Anytime you need a sitter...."

Gus seemed to decide that he quite liked this idea, and made a rather brave attempt at leaping over to Justin from my arms, several feet away. I caught him around the middle even as his feet pushed at me, trying to escape.

"I think he wants you, Sunshine," I said with a grunt as Gus's shoe-clad foot made contact with my stomach.

Lindsay and I exchanged warm looks as Justin took a mollified Gus into his arms, narrowly avoiding having my keys flung in his eye. I fought against a smile, watching the two of them together. I never imagined I'd want a family, but I had to admit, at least inside my own head, that I could understand why people liked coming home to a partner and kid every day, if it was like this.

"Well, we better get going," Lindsay said, sounding as though she regretted this. "Are you sure you don't mind doing this again next week, Justin?"

"Not at all," he said brightly.

"Thank you," Lindsay said again, coming to take Gus from Justin and kiss the latter on the cheek. "And are you sure we can't pay you for this?" she sounded pained.

"Positive," he assured her, allowing her to remove my son from his arms. "It was no trouble at all. Really, Linds, he was great."

She shot him another grateful look even as she tried to pry my keys from Gus's fingers. "Well, apparently he's got multiple personalities," she said, making Justin laugh. "Gus, honey, Daddy needs these...."

"Daddy!" Gus said happily, and flung the keys to the ground, which he seemed to find quite amusing.

Lindsay thanked Justin yet again, kissed me goodbye, hoisted Gus's bag onto her shoulder, and was off.

"So...you survived," I said as the elevator started in the hallway, the loft oddly quiet in their absence.

Justin raised an eyebrow at me. "You didn't expect me to?"

"Sunshine, you were alone with a toddler all day," I said. "Just that you've retained enough sanity to even speak English is a miracle in itself."

His briefly tense expression cracked at this, a smile forming on his lips as he came to welcome me home for real.

"So...how was it?" I asked, pulling him close.

"Like I told Lindsay, it was fine," he said, leaning up to kiss me, his arms draped around my neck. "I don't know why everyone is so surprised. Gus is a good kid."

"Yeah. He is," I agreed. "But he's a toddler with Kinney blood, being raised by two munchers. That's why everyone is surprised."

He laughed, and kissed me again, long and deep. I pulled him even closer, my hand on his neck. There was a clatter as Justin kicked the keys at our feet in his effort to get closer. Finally, I forced myself to pull away.

"I need to change," I explained, but didn't release him completely, pulling him by the hand on my way to the bedroom. "So, you're doing this again next week?"

"Mmm-hmm," he said, flopping on the bed and pulling his legs up beneath him as I rifled through the closet for something more comfortable to wear. "Next Friday. I told Lindsay I'd do it any day I didn't have school or therapy, but she said just the one day would be fine. She said she talked to her parents, and they said they'd love to help out until they can get Gus into another daycare center."

So, Linds knew about the therapy now, apparently. I felt rather relieved that he was the one to tell her...glad that he trusted his friends. "Clearly, he loves daycare a la Sunshine."

"Mmm," he murmured. "She offered to pay me, you know. Lindsay did," he mused. "Three times, actually."

"Sounds like you're a very popular daycare with muncher mothers, too."

He rolled his eyes, but was smiling as I stepped out of my work pants and pulled on a pair of jeans.

"Thanks, though," he said quietly, staring at the duvet as I fumbled with the button of my pants.

"For what?"

"For not freaking out at the idea...for trusting me," he shrugged.

I pulled a black wife-beater over my head and came to join him on the bed. "Well...you've given me good reason," I said honestly, my voice quite as soft as his. "I told you...I'm trying, Justin—I am."

He nodded, his eyes boring into mine. "Me too," he said seriously, with a look so fierce and bare that I knew he meant it.

"I know," I said. "I know you are." He smiled at me, opening his mouth to say something else, but I noticed something, suddenly, and interrupted before it occurred to me not to. "Hey, where's our picture?" I frowned.

"Huh?"

"The drawing," I said, gesturing at the nightstand, where Justin's drawing had resided just this morning. "Where is it?"

"Oh, yeah. Gus took a nap in here today, so I put it away," shrugged Justin. "I don't know if he would have noticed it, and I doubt he'd know what it is, but, still...the last thing I want to do is send your kid into therapy." He pushed himself off the bed, pulled open a dresser drawer, and began rummaging inside it for the picture. "Here," he said, crawling back onto the bed, the drawing in his hand.

"Let me see," I said, reaching out to take the framed portrait from him. It really was beautiful. And that Justin's mind had allowed him to draw it made it even more so. I took in the details...the things that made it so amazingly _us. _Our hands entwined together, my arm draped protectively over his hip. My lips on his neck, almost more a caress than a kiss. It spoke of tenderness, of love...of what we felt together, what we were. Christ, I was such a fucking lesbian...but it was true. It was all true. Inescapable, by this point, really.

"Do you miss it?" he asked faintly. So faintly, in fact, that I thought for a moment I'd imagined it. "Honestly?"

He wasn't looking at me, sitting cross-legged next to his pillow, staring down at his knees.

I let out a deep breath, my shoulders feeling suddenly heavy, and didn't answer. Couldn't.

"I know...I mean, it'll never be like it was," he continued, still so quietly. "I've thought about it...all the things we used to—you know. Things we'll probably never be able to do again."

My throat felt dry as I listened to him, speaking so softly, so sadly. His eyes were quite dry, but he carried a solemness about him that spoke of sorrow. I wondered how much thought he'd put into this, how often he lamented over what we no longer had, what we may never have again. Yes, sex was a very real possibility for us someday, but who was to say we'd love it as much as we once did? Who was to say it wouldn't be ruined forever by what had happened to him? Was that type of intimacy we'd once had gone forever? Maybe he'd only be able to handle certain things...things that were sexual, without being actual sex. Blow jobs or hand jobs...right now, even those seemed like such huge steps, but if and when we crossed that road...would we ever be able to have more than that? Would he ever be able to let me inside him again? So many uncertainties, so many unanswerable questions.

"I always loved it...being able to let you do anything. And it always felt good. I was never...it was never scary," he said. "Even the first time...I mean, I was scared, in that 'first time' way, but...you made me feel like I was safe, you know? I felt like I could trust you...and I didn't even know you then."

I considered this while he seemed to struggle with his next words. "And now...I don't know if I'll ever be able to handle certain things again...stuff we used to do. Even just not being able to see you...."

It surprised me that I hadn't really thought of it like this before. I'd never really considered the technicalities, which struck me as rather odd. I'd always just thought of us having sex again as some distant hope, something a million tomorrows away, and, just maybe, growing closer every day. I'd never really thought about the ways our sex _life _would change, if we ever got it back. Sure, I had the fears, the what-ifs rolling around inside my head, but...the actual act itself.... If we ever played again with bondage or toys, it wouldn't be for a very, very long time—that was a given. I wondered now, though, if I'd even be able to fuck him on his hands and knees, or his stomach...if he couldn't see me, could he handle it?

"I'm not saying...that it'll be the same, Justin," I said gently. "It probably...it probably won't." As much as I hated to admit it, that was most likely the truth. "At least not at first. But it can still be good, you know? It can still be enough." I hesitated for just a moment. "Just...being with you would be enough for me. Just...you enjoying it again. That's all I want."

To my initial alarm, he had tears in his eyes when he looked up at me. But then he nodded, blinking them back, and came to sit beside me, curling into my side as he stared down at his drawing, beneath frame and glass.

I whispered into his hair, three words I never lost the pleasure of seeing him react to, and sure enough, he gave a slightly watery smile.

"And we've got this," I said, my lips against his ear. It was enough. For now, for as long as it had to be. Having him in my life and happy was everything I needed. "Maybe...it'll even be better...." Better, now that we knew how to appreciate it...really, truly appreciate it. Better, now that we relished every second.

Anything else I'd been planning to say, however, was lost, our lips crushed together in a fierce, fiery kiss, without any idea which of us had initiated it. It might have been my words, or just the heat from his close proximity that had us crashing into each other. Suddenly, though, I just had to have him that way, against me, that familiar spark exploding between us, lighting up my world. My fingers seemed to find his hair automatically, pulling him closer. He met my lips eagerly, and kissed back without hesitation. His hand was around my neck, fingers twisting in the front of my shirt, pulling me into him. Yes, we'd always have this. We'd always have this fucking incredible heat between us.

I let him angle my head as he let me inside his mouth, let him keep me afloat as I melted into him. And I let him _know,_ too, let him know everything as I poured every silent promise, every emotion I had for him, every fear and hope and wish for the future into that kiss, clinging to him as he slowly pulled me down on top of himself and _Jesus Christ_ I fucking lived for this. It made me cringe at how pathetic that sounded, but damn it, anything that felt this fucking good was more than a desire—it was a necessity, as essential as breathing.

He was pushing at the hem of my shirt, palms flat against my back. Mine were beneath his clothes, too, pushing his shirt up as I ran my hands over his stomach. He somehow managed to retain enough logical thought to push aside our picture for safekeeping as we fell back against the pillows. I thought of that drawing, how proud I was of him, how fucking amazing it was that he was able to draw that, to see that inside his head, and kissed him harder. We needed it right then. We needed that spark, needed to feel alive and whole, and the only place we got that was with each other.

He was stroking my face and hair, cupping my neck as he kissed me. It was fucking amazing, as it always was, and I wanted him to feel that, too. I wanted to return every ounce of pleasure he was giving me, to assure him that it _was _possible to regain what we had lost, that we still had enough of this spark between us to light a fire. I ran my hand up his thigh, over the soft material of his cargo pants, and taking the hint, he wrapped his legs around me, draping them over the backs of mine. Our kisses were growing more passionate, deeper and longer and more breathless, hungry as we fought to get enough of each other. And he wasn't stopping me. He wasn't doing a thing to slow me down. I could feel my cock straining against my jeans, and found myself hating once again that he couldn't—hadn't since it had happened. Whether or not we'd be able to do anything about it was beside the point. I would have loved for him to feel something like that now.

Slowly, I ran my hand up his stomach, up his chest, playing with a nipple between my fingers. He moaned, actually fucking _moaned, _and arched into my touch. I pressed my forehead against his, our harsh, heavy breathing mingling in the air between us.

Slow. We had to slow this down.

Gently, I pressed my lips against his again, and though he kissed back, I felt his hands on my shoulders, steadying himself, maintaining control. Not that he didn't have absolute control over everything that was happening right now, because he did, but whatever he needed in order to _feel_ it, that was fine. Soon, though, his hands were sliding down, pushing up my shirt again, seeking skin.

"Easy," I warned breathlessly. "Slow."

We'd gotten this far before now. And this was usually around where it had ended, either by choice and good judgment or by one of his freak-outs, as things started to escalate between us. Sure enough, after another moment or so, he pulled away. To my surprise, though, he eyes were clear, his expression calm. He just stared up at me for a moment, lips swollen, breath heavy, and tugged on my shirt. He kissed me again, his hands working to pull the fabric up over my shoulders without tearing his lips from mine. We were forced to break away anyway, but then my shirt was on the floor and he seemed satisfied. And really, I wasn't about to argue that I'd just put the thing on.

He ran his hands over my chest, my shoulders...and then was pulling me back down to him. Slowly, making sure he'd allow it, my own fingers crept back beneath his shirt again, pushing it up his chest.

The sound of his ragged breathing urged me on as I bent to suck at his earlobe, moving down to kiss across his jaw and neck.

"Brian," he gasped, and though my first reaction was to cease what I was doing immediately, his fingers were in my hair, gripping tightly, and I quickly realized it wasn't out of protest.

It was all slow, but with an edge of hunger. He ran his hands up and down my back, holding me close. After a little while, I decided to try giving him a little more, and slid down his body to tease one nipple with my tongue, playing with the other between my fingers, his shirt pushed up as far as it would go without actually taking it off. Then, even that became too much of a hassle, and his shirt joined mine on the floor.

It wasn't as though we hadn't been this way before, skin on skin, but it never ceased to amaze me how fucking amazing it felt, like every cell in my body was on fire. It took everything I had to stop from pressing my hips into him to satisfy the need for friction. I was painfully hard by this point; too much more of this, and I would be coming in my pants like a fucking teenager.

Not that that was going to stop me yet. I kissed him again, my tongue tangling with his, then drawing away to kiss that spot behind his ear or tease a nipple, which he seemed to love. Good. I wanted this to feel good for him. I wanted this to be everything he'd been missing the last five months...or at least, whatever he could let me give.

His hands grasped at my bare skin, nails digging into my back as I teased him, pulling me as close as he could get me, desperate. His fingers switched from my back to my hair as I kissed him, his legs tightening around me, loving the sensations I was giving him.

"Feel good?" I whispered. He gasped something in the affirmative, and I smiled against his lips.

"Brian," he said breathlessly, but he didn't stop kissing me, so I figured it wasn't a plea to stop. I'd know if it was.

I moaned against his lips, unable to help myself as his leg shifted beneath me and brushed against my achingly hard dick. To my surprise, his fingers wound around my belt loops and pulled me in closer.

"Brian," he said again, his voice a little more urgent this time. Still, though, he wasn't stopping, wasn't pushing me away. He tugged my hips even closer, making me groan again with the delicious friction he was creating.

"Yeah?" I gasped back. Shit, we were going to have to stop this soon. It was too much. I wouldn't be able to take it much longer.

He muttered something else against my lips that I didn't catch.

"Hmm?"

"I said...mmm...do you _feel _that?" he repeated, and once again, pulled my lower body against his.

Suddenly, I froze. Just stopped everything.

Holy fucking shit.

I blinked at him. "You're..." I couldn't even say it. I couldn't even think. A white buzz seemed to have filled my head, replacing logical thought.

"Yeah."

No. Fucking. Way.

"You're actually—" Oh my God.

I could feel it now. Shifting just the right way, I could feel it—feel _him—_pressing against my inner thigh.

Jesus. Christ.

Slowly, a smile was stretching across his face. "Brian...."

"You're actually...you've got a—"

He laughed, a delirious, happy sound. His eyes looked suspiciously shiny. "I wasn't even sure I could anymore."

He was grinning, his joy more than evident, even if he did look a bit—shaky. But holy fuck. This was fucking amazing. He was actually _hard. _He was kissing me, and enjoying himself, and for the first time in five months, he was fucking hard. It was like _us. _Like _it _didn't exist at all.

I couldn't help it, I laughed too, and kissed him again, happy and celebratory. The quick pecks didn't last long, quickly leading to long, drawn out brushes of my tongue against his...and still, I could feel him, angled just right against me. Did he want me to..._do_ anything?

"What—what do you want...?" I started to ask.

"Nothing," he said, his tone decisive. "I don't think I...I mean..."

"That's fine," I assured him. That was more than fine. Just that this had finally happened was enough. Just that he wasn't thinking about _them _or _it _was enough. He was here with me, and for the first time in five months, enjoying something truly sexual. He fucking deserved this. Needed it.

"Just keep doing...this," he said, touching his lips to mine again, pulling me close, and I decided that sounded like a pretty fucking good idea to me.

**~. Justin .~**

Oh my God. Oh my _God. _

I couldn't believe it. I really thought I was dreaming or something.

But it didn't get much more real than this. I was actually hard. After everything, after all I'd gone through, the medications I was taking...I'd gotten an erection. After all this time—or maybe _because _of all this time—my body still had the same reaction to Brian as it always had.

Not that it meant we could actually _do _anything. I wasn't ready for that, and I think we both knew it. But it felt fucking incredible, anyway. I wondered if maybe...on my own....

I decided I'd have to test that theory. Later. Right then, I had better things to think about. Not much mattered other than that I keep kissing Brian, my senses registering nothing but pleasure. Nothing innocent or chaste about it; it was all sexual, all us. Slow and cautious, yes, but sexual. And I fucking loved it.

For the first time since _It, _I thought about what it might feel like for him to fuck me, and came up with something more than fear or numb indifference or an inability to remember what it felt like at all. All these parts of me, unused in so long, crackling to life again—and suddenly it was more than a distant memory of what I used to love, who I used to be. It was _this. _Here, now. This pleasure I was feeling, this trust and intimacy that I'd only ever felt with Brian, this was what had been missing. I'd felt so disconnected without it, and suddenly, it was like it was fucking _mine _again. It was like something had been unlocked inside me, all these fucking incredible feelings rushing back.

I think I might have told him I loved him, gasping the words against his lips. I just wanted him on me, over me, touching and kissing and holding me. I never felt small or powerless beneath him...not anymore; being underneath his body like this only ever made me feel safe and protected and loved. I could feel his cock pressing against me, hard and straining against his jeans, his hands all over me.

I wanted to smile at him, tell him everything was okay, and get his pants down and off. I wanted to tell him that I could take care of it for him, and then give him something amazing to feel. I wanted him to strip me and hold me and push inside me so gentle and make me feel so good and sexy and wonderful.

At that moment, I knew it would be possible, someday. Maybe not what we had before, but, like he said...enough.

Right then, though, all I could concentrate on was his tongue stroking mine, and the way his body was situated just right on top of me. Nothing scary at the edges of my awareness, nothing but Brian all around me, and all I could think was how much I loved him and loved this and never wanted it to end.

And it didn't. Not for a long, long time.

~.~

The very next week, Brian took me out again, to the same meek, unassuming little restaurant with the good salad and the gay waiter. There was a tense moment outside the building when two large, beefy men passed us holding hands, but Brian waited patiently with me, huddled at the edge of the sidewalk until they passed and I deemed it safe to move again. I'd let out a breath, frustration and relief mingling inside me. I hated that...that panicky, helpless feeling, too aware of how little I could to do protect myself, how little I _had _done to protect myself in the past. That feeling of sheer vulnerability.

Hell, I'd even felt that way around Brian for a while, right after. I was never scared of _him, _per se, but every time he'd gotten too close, or started kissing me and trying to touch me, I would just be so aware of how much bigger and stronger he was than me, how big his arms were and how I had to look up to see him. I'd always loved, and still did, how his size in comparison to mine made me feel so safe and comfortable whenever he would wrap his arms around me. It was just that, for a while, it had made me feel other things, sometimes, too.

I didn't think he told any of our friends about our recent little excursions. I heard him lying to Michael on the phone about where we'd been when we missed his call that Wednesday night. I was rather grateful for the fact that Brian seemed to understand, without me having to say a word; I didn't want them knowing, just yet, what I was capable of. I knew they wouldn't pressure me, but if they did start asking us out again, aware that we'd left the safety of the loft and gone out to eat, I wasn't sure how I'd be able to turn them down. Most likely, Brian would just tell them no, and to drop it, but...it was nice just to savor this little piece of success with Brian without having it be some big ordeal, even though it really was.

On Friday, I was called upon to watch Gus again while Brian, Lindsay, and Mel all went to work. I think Brian knew how much it meant to me that I was being allowed to stay home while he was gone, even with Gus there with me. Brian still had his security, and I had the knowledge that I was the babysitter, not the one being babysat for once, though I knew Brian would never use that word to describe it.

I did wonder, though, if this meant he was one step closer to letting me stay home alone. Honestly, I wasn't sure if I relished or feared that idea...probably both, on some level. I loved the idea of being trusted enough for him to let me do it, and of the independence it would mean. But it would also mean several hours a day of just being alone with my thoughts. Now, if I ever felt nervous or needed someone with me, they were never far; Brian made sure of that. I wasn't sure what I would do if I needed someone while I was alone during the day, though I knew Brian would insist I call him for anything of the sort.

I used to fear—especially in the weeks directly following that night—an intrusion in the loft while I was home alone all day. Hell, everything else in my life had been violated, it didn't seem that far-fetched. But we had the alarm system, and I had the phone, and there were plenty of things around the loft that could be used as weapons—I'd picked them all out long ago. I used to sit here, during the day, resisting the urge to call Brian every five minutes, checking the alarm obsessively and determining what could be used as a weapon, if I ever needed it and Brian wasn't here.

I felt a lot safer in the loft these days, though I couldn't be sure if that was progress, or because I always had Brian here with me. But I didn't have him those two days I watched Gus, nor did I feel particularly afraid. I wondered if I'd feel differently if I was truly alone.

It had been a whole entire week since that night I'd been kissing Brian and gotten hard, for the first time since the party. It hadn't happened again, though it wasn't for lack of trying. It was discouraging when it didn't happen, but Brian had told Kathy about it all, and she'd said it wasn't fair to expect everything to be back to normal just because it happened once. It was that "give it time" thing again.

I'd started sleeping with just my boxer shorts on at night. Once or twice, I'd had to wear my sweatpants, but I was really enjoying this skin-on-skin thing, and capitalized on it whenever I could. I wondered what would happen if we tried something when we were like that, if we started kissing and messing around. However, it made me nervous, and I wasn't sure it was the best idea. The lack of fabric between us was still enough to make me somewhat uneasy with thought of doing too much.

But I _was _curious about what would happen if I took things a little further on my own. I'd gotten hard with him, but I hadn't been able to let him do anything about it. What if I did something myself? Could I handle that? The idea of doing something so blatantly sexual again gave me butterflies in my stomach. It had taken a week for me to work up the nerve to even try. What if I couldn't do it? How difficult would it be to handle the disappointment if it went wrong and nothing happened?

Finally, though, the timing was perfect, and I could fight my curiosity no longer. Brian was out on his computer, and I had the bathroom all to myself. I stripped slowly, trying to combat nerves and unease with the idea of Brian's skin on mine, the memory of what it had felt like last week, that purely sexual feeling I got when I was kissing him.

I started up the shower, adjusting the temperature to just hot enough, and then stood there, unsure. Which was stupid. It was like, I knew what to do, but then again I didn't. So, instead, I started showering like normal. I shampooed my hair, massaging my scalp the way Brian always used to that felt so good. It was always alternately erotic and playful, depending on our respective moods. Then I soaped up, trying to imagine it was Brian's hands running over my body. Ever since the very first time, I'd always loved showers with him. I remembered how the idea had seemed so foreign, at first, having someone else in the shower with me. But after a while, it seemed odder _not _to "conserve water" together.

Slowly, nerves fluttering against the inside of my stomach, squeezing my lungs and rising up in my throat, my soapy hand moved lower, lower...over my chest and down my stomach. I thought of all the times Brian and I had stood together inside this shower, on this very spot, soaping and cleaning each other. Sometimes, we'd talk over the rush of the water around us. Other times, we'd tease each other until he had enough and pressed me up against the glass and fucked me, all slow and hot and—whatever he said—romantic. Or maybe erotic was the word, though I wasn't sure he'd like that one much better.

Sometimes we'd play games like hide the soap—one of my personal favorites—and sometimes, when it was too early or too late for anything else and we were both about to drop dead from exhaustion, we'd just wash each other and hold each other up and get done as fast as possible before we went to crash in bed.

Dozens and dozens of these pleasant memories seemed to fly at me, all vying for my attention. They pressed against my closed eyelids and played tricks with my nerves, sending tingles of pleasure rippling across my skin, down my spine. My hand closed around my dick, my breath catching in my throat, and I let these memories take over, tried to imagine it was Brian in there with me.

So good...so amazing...all these memories I had of him and me, of us...of his mouth and hands and lips and tongue and dick....doing the most wonderful things to me. Whether slow and drawn out, or quick and dirty, he always knew how to bring me the maximum of pleasure imaginable.

"_Mmm...."_ I let the noise bubble up from my throat. It echoed in here, but I hardly paid attention, focused as I was on all the memories I was pulling up from some hidden reservoir inside me. I was starting to really _feel _it, all those pleasant little tingles starting to happen where I most wanted them. I thought about some of our hottest times, in the shower and out, tried to imagine his voice in my ear, whispering all the dirty little things he was going to do to me. Just his voice alone, making such promises, had always gotten me harder than I could have ever imagined. He used to have so much fun with that. Once, he'd tied me to the bed, where we'd spent a good thirty minutes trying to see if he could make me come with just his voice. Whether or not it was possible, we'd never found out; after I'd started pleading with him to hurry it up already, he'd taken pity and fucked me then and there. We always said we'd try it again someday. We'd never gotten the chance.

"_Oh...."_ I said breathlessly. I was feeling it, now, really feeling it, and _oh God _it felt good. My cock twitched in my hand as I recalled more and more of these memories, so close to me, pushing my fears further and further away. There was no room for anything or anyone else here. Not now.

I was hot and hard and getting harder. I stroked my dick, thinking of Brian's face and lips and body, his cock, his hands on me. He'd always given the best hand jobs. And blow jobs. And rim jobs. And everything else. But I'd always loved the way he'd take me in his hand while he was fucking me, or sometimes just jerked me off so that he could watch my face while I came. He always loved making me feel good, watching what he did to me.

_Long, sure fingers, wrapping themselves around my cock and stroking, hazel eyes finding mine as I fought to keep them open...so good...so fucking good...._

Oh my God. Fuck yes. I was hard, oh God, I was fucking _hard,_ for the second time in five months. I could do this. I _was _doing this. Oh God oh God oh _God._

_Playing with my balls, fingers inside me...yes yes yes...so good all over...never stop...feels so good...._

Oh, God, this was actually real. I was hard, my cock in my hand, and it was thrilling and amazing and it felt so fucking good I didn't know how it was possible for me to contain it all. I gasped, my toes curling in the water splashing at my feet. _Jesus..._what if I actually _came? _The idea made my breath catch; my chest fought to bring in air as my mind whirled with the prospect of an impending orgasm.

_Lips kissing, tongue teasing, hands stroking...so amazing, so good...more...I needed more....he knew that, always knew it, and gave it, giving me everything, giving me himself....I was on fire with sensation, the most intense, amazing feelings I'd ever known...and he gave them to me, made me feel this...._

And then something changed, some twinge inside me, another memory injecting itself into the montage inside my head.

_Rough hands...too many that didn't belong...pain and harshness and oh God no....please please please...let go...so scared, so fucking scared...hands all over me, trying to jerk me off and it didn't matter because there was no way I could ever get hard through this...._

I gasped, slipped and fell backward, hitting something solid. I was on the floor, reaching blindly for anything I could find, water stinging my eyes, and suddenly it was cold, my grip slipping as I fought helplessly against my own mind.

_Hands shoving me backward, wanting me in that fucking THING and I didn't want to and they were making me anyway...no no no...had to get away...couldn't let them, couldn't let them...please stop...STOP IT...stuck now, stuck in this fucking trap and cold and bare and with no way up or out or oh God, they're everywhere...get them off, just get them OFF....don't TOUCH me...._

I tried once again to suck in a shaky breath of air, fighting to breathe, but I couldn't quite manage around the sheer, chilling panic in my lungs. One second, I felt the freezing shower water beating down on me, memories of warm, strong, yet gentle hands on my body, my hips and legs and cock. The next second, all I felt were cold, rough fingers where they had no right to be, unable to determine which was more real at that moment.

_All over me...my skin...something down my throat and crying too hard to breathe...rough, clammy hands, unrelenting...shoving me and hitting me and pinching and stroking and hurting...always bringing pain with them and oh God how do I STOP this...how do I get them off me...._

I slammed my hands over my face, trying to erase these images, make them stop, and gave a muffled, helpless scream. Oh God. No way to stop this...no way to _stop _this....

_Tears filled my eyes, pouring down my cheeks, trying to find a way out as I fought to scream. For help. For anything. Just because I didn't know what else to do. Just because I didn't know how to get them off me, their spidery fingers where they couldn't be less wanted. _

_There was no way to stop this. _

**~. Brian .~**

He'd been in that shower a long time. A really long time. Fifteen minutes wasn't that long. Then it was twenty, and still, that wasn't too bad. But then it was twenty-five, and then thirty. Normally, I would have been barging in there in concern, but he'd been sort of shy...almost sheepish...beforehand, and I thought I knew the reason behind this.

More than once in the last week, we'd tried sparking another sexual reaction out of him. We never really said that was what we were doing, but every time we kissed, every time we started getting carried away, it was like a third presence there with us, that hope we both silently shared.

If he _was _busy in the bathroom, I really didn't want to disturb him, didn't want to freak him out or ruin it by being there. And he'd obviously wanted to be alone to do it, which was probably the right way to go. Like I'd told him, I just wanted him to enjoy it again. And if he needed to do this alone first before he did anything with me, then that was more than fine where I was concerned.

Which was why, to my retrospective regret, I let him stay in there for a good half an hour before going to poke my head in and check on him.

"SHIT," I swore, the curse slipping from my lips, more of them rising like bile in my throat. For a second, I forgot how to breathe properly, my heart thumping madly against my ribcage. I was at the shower door in an instant, staring down at Justin, on the other side of the glass, on the ground in a crumpled heap. For one horrible, heart stopping second, I feared the worst. I really did.

Without thinking, I threw open the door, the sudden icy chill a shock to my system as I stepped inside.

"Justin!" I yelled, bending down to shake him. He looked up at me, dazed, and blinked at me with hazy eyes.

"Brian..." he said, barely audible over the freezing cold water soaking the floor, me, him...everything. Logic finally returning as my worst fear was proven false, I reached up to shut off the water.

I wasn't sure what to do. He hadn't let me touch him while he was naked in months, but taking in the groggy, absent look in his eyes, I decided I was going to have to take the risk.

"Put your arms around me," I ordered gently. He blinked puffy, red eyes at me again, then did as he was told. He buried himself into me as I struggled to pick him up, moving awkwardly in my soaking wet clothes, his body slipping and sliding in my grip. Shit shit _shit. _This was so not good. What the fuck had happened?

Finally, I managed to get us both to the bed, lying him down across the duvet. He curled into my pillow, and lie there, motionless. Shit. What did I do now? Did I just leave him there like that?

After another moment's deliberation, I returned to the bathroom, sloshed my way through the miniature puddle that had formed outside the shower door, and grabbed a few towels. Checking constantly for any signs of panic, I dried him off as best as I could, grabbed a pair of boxers, sweatpants, and a shirt, and carefully dressed him. He made no move to help, or even gave any sign that he realized what I was doing.

I dried myself off, too, as well as the bathroom floor, and changed into some dry clothes before returning to check on Justin. He had his eyes closed, with a death grip on my pillow. Not daring to try and take it from him, or try to move him beneath the duvet, I covered his still-freezing body with some extra blankets from the closet before crawling in beside him.

**~. Justin .~**

I blinked into the surrounding darkness.

It took a moment for it to register where I was, as the last thing I remembered was water cascading around me, tingles down my spine and more pleasant places, my toes curling and breath catching. Wherever I was now, it was warm and soft and comfortable. After a moment, I realized I was in bed. Though I couldn't remember putting them on, I was clad in my favorite pair of sweatpants, and the bed was slightly damp beneath me, as though I'd been sweating. Had I collapsed in here after my shower?

Oh _fuck..._the shower.

It all came slamming back into me at once, everything I could remember. So good, and then so horrible, trapped inside my memories as they shoved themselves at me, rough and relentless. It was like I'd opened a door for them, inviting all those pleasant recollections back inside me, and the scary ones had gatecrashed, taking advantage of the momentary lapse in mental security and leaving me with no way to shove them out. And then suddenly, pulling me from the cold and the fear and the helplessness was Brian, dragging me out of this foggy trance-like state and into the safety of his arms.

Jesus. I hadn't had a flashback that bad in months. So real, so inescapable. I'd been doing something explicitly sexual, and my mind, it seemed, just hadn't been able to draw the line between the present and the horrifying past.

I blinked again, my eyes struggling to adjust to the lack of light. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand; it was still relatively early...only about ten in the evening. With the lights off, it felt later. I looked to my right, and found Brian, wide awake and staring at me.

He spoke first, shattering the silence around us. "Hey."

"Hey," I said, my voice coming out a little hoarse. I shifted beneath the blankets...blankets we usually kept in the closet, I noticed. I wasn't under the duvet.

"Feeling better?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah...I think so. I—" I stopped when I realized I didn't know what to say. I felt a familiar heaviness rising in my chest, a painful lump forming at the back of my throat. Something wet trickled from the corner of my eye, and I realized I was crying.

Despite my recent shower, I could feel that well-known grime beneath my skin, those ugly, filthy sensations I'd worked so hard to get rid of and leave behind clawing at me now, as though angry that I'd neglected them for so long. I wiped away a few more tears, pushing at the memories, fighting them off, even now. I wasn't sobbing or anything, but Brian was there anyway, his arms coming around me and pulling me down to lie next to him. I curled into his warmth, letting a tear streak down my cheek onto his chest every now and then.

They weren't worth it, really. Gary and the others weren't worth hurting this much over. I tried to keep that in mind, battling my own demons as I lay there. I shoved away thoughts of Them, and thought of the man currently breathing next to me...the way it felt to kiss him...how my body just seemed too small to possibly contain such happiness whenever he told me he loved me...how he held me every night, kept me safe and warm. I thought of happy things...my art, my drawings, how amazing it felt to have that part of myself back again. I thought of brunch at Mel and Lindsay's, and I thought of lunch with Daphne and dinners with my friends and my mother. The good things. My antidotes to Gary's poison he'd tried so hard to taint my mind with.

It helped; I'd stopped crying before long, and continued to just lie there with Brian as he whispered soothing words into my ear. See? I had better things to think about, and focusing on things like loving Brian and my friends and family was a hell of a lot more pleasant than wasting energy being miserable over memories of something that had happened so many months ago. They didn't deserve to waste my time. They didn't deserve my energy, or my art, or my life.

They just weren't fucking worth it.

**~. Brian .~**

I let him cry, let him get it out, rid himself of it. It was nothing compared to the breakdowns that usually accompanied such panic attacks, but I wasn't complaining. Maybe his mind was finally at a point where he could get through the aftermath of these things with minimal difficulty and pain. Christ, I hoped so.

I didn't want to ask, nor did I want him to have to tell me. I thought I might know the answer anyway, but I needed to be sure. I certainly didn't want to be right in this case, but it was important...I needed to know if I was.

"So...what, uh...what happened?" I asked awkwardly, stroking his hair gently as we laid there together.

When he spoke, his breath tickled my neck, muffled in my skin. "I just remembered...things," he said simply. "You've seen it happen. It's not the first time."

"Why? I mean...what set it off?"

He sighed heavily into my neck. "I was trying...I don't know," he muttered, sounding distinctly disheartened. "I don't know what I was thinking. I was trying to...take things further. What we did last week...what happened...."

Shit. So I was right. He'd been trying—not that I could blame him—to get off in the shower, and the result was this. What did that mean, then, that the first time he'd tried to do something even resembling sex, this had happened? Obviously, he hadn't been ready, but this...this just fucking sucked in so many ways, and none of them were good.

He sighed again, finally rolling away from me. He didn't go far, settling on the edge of our shared pillow. "I don't know why. God, I don't fucking know anything," he said, scrubbing his hands over his face in frustration. "It's just like...I want things, and I know what I want, and it should be so fucking easy, and it's just..._not._ Like, it's all right there all the time and I still can't have any of it."

I nodded slowly. "Well...that's natural," I said, trying to soothe him as much as I could. He wasn't crying anymore, but he looked frustrated and sullen and miserable, nothing like the way he'd looked last week, on this very bed, as I kissed him and touched him made him feel these things for the first time in so long. "It takes—"

"Don't say time."

I bit my tongue, struggling between exasperation and amusement at his ability to read my mind. He may not like what I had to say, but it was the truth.

"Look, it's natural that things aren't really—over—yet, in your mind," I said. Whether he wanted to hear it or not, it wouldn't change the fact that I was right. "Or as over as you'd like them to be, anyway. What happened to you, Justin—it's one of the worst things that can happen to anyone. It makes sense that there's still a part of you that hasn't let it go yet." The sexual part. The part he wanted so badly.

"It does?" he asked quietly, looking at me from beneath long lashes.

"Yeah. I mean it's...it's part of your past," I said. "Things like this...whether you want them to or not...they stick with you."

"So...how do you get over it?"

I blew out a deep breath between my teeth, considering him. "One day at a time. Just the way we have been."

He nodded, still looking rather melancholy. "I just wanted to see if I could," he said quietly. "I wanted...I wanted to remember what it felt like. I should have known I wouldn't be able to handle it."

"Well...you won't know unless you try," I said fairly. "Did it...did you like it? At first?" I grimaced inwardly, hating the awkwardness between us at this topic, of all things. When did it become easier to tell him how much I cared about him than to talk to him about sex?

"Yeah," he admitted, a soft smile gracing his face in the shadowy room. "Yeah. I did. It felt...like me, you know? Like, who I was before...it felt good."

"Maybe that's an indication of what's to come, then," I said, trying to instill as much hopefulness as I could into my voice.

"What do you mean?" he asked, frowning.

"I mean...if you could do that now, and like it even a little...then maybe someday you'll be able to enjoy it again for real." That was logical, right? He just seemed so disappointed...I wanted to give him something hopeful to hold onto.

He was nodding. "I guess that makes sense. I just...."

"What?" I prodded gently.

"I don't know," he said, sighing. "Do you think I'm...I mean, I _know _things are better. Like...almost back to normal better, except for...well, I love the way they are most of the time. But...do you ever think maybe I'm just...fucked up, in some ways? Like, for good?"

His gaze held mine in the darkness, the bright blue of his eyes dulled and muted in the shadows as he waited for an answer.

"No more than the rest of us," I said honestly after a moment. He was far, far too beautiful to be considered a fuck up, in my not-so-humble opinion. And hell, even if he was, it wouldn't matter. We'd just be fucked up together, dealing with whatever shit came our way. He was hardly the first one to feel broken...and I'd do everything I could to help put him back together, the same way he made _me _feel like all those old cracks, those old scars, were magically healed when he was around.

"It's stupid," he admitted. "I know it is...to worry about something like this when things are so good anyway. I just—"

"Want what they took from you," I finished. "You want what's yours." What was never theirs to take.

He blinked at me, his eyes carrying a sort of sad acceptance. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, that's exactly it. I mean, when I'm kissing you, or...or we're just hanging out and laughing...I want to feel like _that. _Like _me, _you know?"

"I know," I said softly, truthfully. "But...Justin, look...no one expects you to just put it behind you and forget. It's not going to be like that, even years from now. But...you live, you know? You move on."

Fuck, this thing really had nearly broken him, had nearly killed him...how could anyone ever be expected to just get over something like that? In the beginning of a situation like this one—and as hard as it was to accept it, we were still very much in the early stages, when you considered the big picture and the years ahead—there were always going to be setbacks, and hardships, and suffering. There were always going to be things his mind wouldn't let him have, until it healed enough to handle it. It was always going to be a part of his past, a part of him, however small, even if it was just a damaged little corner of pain and tragedy at the back of his mind.

"And...if you ever start to get caught up in it, or whatever...if you need someone to bring you back...you'll always have me," I said quietly.

The corners of his mouth twitched in the hint of a smile. "Promise?"

"Promise," I said firmly, and suddenly he was back over on my side of the bed, pressed right against me, where he belonged. Where I wanted him, always. I kissed him, then, reassuring him as much as myself. He kissed back, hot and wet and without restraint. Maybe this was all he needed, just a little shove back into this era of our lives and out of the darkness that had once nearly swallowed him up. Maybe he just needed to feel fucking alive to keep that darkness from killing him_._ Well, I knew how to give him that much, at least.

He was wriggling on top of me. I grunted when his elbow found my gut, and opened my eyes to ask him what the hell he was trying to do to me. Then, I realized that his shirt was gone, his sweatpants around his ankles as he tried to kick them off, so that he was wearing only the boxers I'd dressed him in. He let me roll us over to our sides, the blankets pulled up around us, huddled together as we kissed, wrapped in each other.

"See? It's all about taking it slow...one step at a time," I whispered against his lips. That was, after all, how we'd gotten to this point. It was a slow process, maybe, but one I was willing to wait as long as I had to for.

"Mmm," he murmured in what sounded like a halfhearted agreement. "Maybe...maybe next time, you could take it with me?"

I felt my breath catch in my throat at this implication. I couldn't pretend, however, that I didn't like the idea. He'd freaked out plenty of times with me as a witness, but I felt better, somehow, at the thought that I would be there to bring him back if he lost it again, to keep him grounded here in the present with me, rather than let him get lost in the horrors of his own mind. And the idea that he would be reclaiming such a major piece of himself with me...the idea of us being _us..._it made my heart do all sorts of lesbionic things inside my chest.

"Yeah," I agreed, leaning in to kiss and nuzzle his forehead, his body warm against mine. "Yeah, maybe I could."


	29. Waiting

**A/N: *waves* Hope everyone had a happy holiday and New Years :)**

**And for anyone who is still following this story...no, I didn't abandon it. I was starting to feel a little burnt out working on this chapter, so I took a little break. In this case, absence indeed made the heart grow fonder, and I'm feeling pretty excited about the next (and--I can't believe I'm saying it, but _last)_ few chapters. When I started this thing back in '08, I never thought it would be 2010 and I would still be working on it. I don't have a definite number in mind yet, but I'm kind of sad to say there's only a few chapters left, so this will definitely be the year this story finally ends, lol.**

**And now, the first chapter posted in the new year....**

**~. Brian .~**

Sometimes, progress was better determined by what_ didn't_ occur, rather than what did.

In the days since Justin's freak out in the shower, nothing in our kisses or touches or anything else had perceptibly changed. He didn't withdraw inside himself, or suffer any of the usual consequences of the flashbacks like the one he'd had. He wasn't moody, or any more frustrated than usual. He was just...Justin. He watched TV with me and joked and accompanied me to Debbie's on Saturday. He did decline my invitation to go out to eat that next week, though he'd claimed it was because Daphne had bought him lunch that afternoon and he'd eaten too much. To be fair, there _were_ empty takeout boxes on her table when I'd picked him up that day, and I'd given him the benefit of the doubt.

But he'd just sort of picked himself up, dusted himself off, and kept going. Were our lives really at that point now? Was his mind?

A few weeks ago, Kathy had read the "essay" she'd assigned Justin—a four-page product in its finished state—and had made him staple it to the inside of his therapy log. She'd told him to read that whenever he felt like he needed a "pick me up," something to pull him out of his darker thoughts with its evidence of his progress and hopefulness. I'd caught him reading it twice since his panic episode in the shower, but that was the one and only indication that it had ever even happened.

I listened on the little sofa in Kathy's office while he told her about the incident, blushing as he explained what he'd been doing to trigger it. She listened with an impassive face, however, not even batting an eyelash at any of the details she gently coaxed from him. She encouraged him not to let this stand in his way, should he wish to try again. Whether alone or with me, however, she said it was important that he felt as comfortable as possible with the situation, and that he shouldn't get frustrated if he did incur more panic episodes like the one he'd suffered from the other night.

"This is the first real step you've taken to reclaim your sexual identity," she'd explained patiently. "In the months since your assault, your mind has come to link sexual experience with what you went through that night. As you continue to make progress, that part of you will start waking up again to sex and the experiences you _want _to have. Until then, this is a lot for your mind to handle, so be patient."

We also talked with Kathy about his upcoming round of tests at the clinic. Six months. Nearly six _fucking_ months since Justin had been hurt. My throat went inexplicably dry whenever I thought of this; I could hardly believe that we'd spent half a year of our lives in this...this post-trauma, depression-plagued recovery period. And that was what it was...a recovery period far longer and more painful than that of any physical pain I could have imagined. But even when his psychological state had succumbed to the slippery slope he was constantly fighting upon, struggling to trudge uphill, he had still been healing, had still been taking down each day, one at a time, to reach the point he was at now.

I knew this was hard for him, having to accept that time was what he really needed, above all. Though I didn't quite understand it the way he did, I understood that feeling of powerlessness all too well. And I understood, in my own way, the difficulty in waiting. After all, I'd done it, too. I remembered the nights, before I'd known what he'd gone through, where he'd stay out on the couch watching TV for hours until he thought I'd fallen asleep before joining me in bed because, as I'd learned later, he was terrified that I'd try to initiate sex. And I remembered the mornings where he'd eat only half a piece of toast for breakfast, and that would last him until I forced some dinner down his throat. And the nightmares he used to have...sometimes two or three in a matter of hours, on his worst nights. He'd wake up screaming and he'd cry in my arms until he fell back asleep. It had been nothing less than pure living hell for both of us.

But we'd weathered through that. We'd waited for the storm to pass as much as we'd fought it out. Now, what he missed most was something a lot less essential than the happiness and contentment he'd lacked back then. Small things, things we'd always taken for granted. Things like waking each other up with hot, languid blow jobs, or going out whenever we wanted, and not just when and where he felt like he could handle it.

More than anything else, though—even leaving the loft on his own when he wanted to—he missed that part of our relationship that had always come so easily. And truth be told, I missed it, too. Of course I did. How could I not? It was like an itch I just couldn't scratch...one I needed _him _to scratch for me, perhaps.

The difference was, I was handling the unquenchable urge a lot better than he was. Possibly, this was because he didn't risk the same things as I did when he took his chances. He risked tears, and frustration, and pain, and flashbacks. He risked a hell of a lot when he so much as closed his eyes, to be honest. But with me...I risked seeing him go through all of that. And I wasn't saying that my suffering was greater than his, or anything of the sort, but...he had himself to worry about. And I had him. I knew, if the positions were reversed, he'd be more worried about me than his own mind, and that was exactly the way it was with us now. He risked himself, yes, but that was his chance to take. When I risked him...or let him risk himself...it tore me apart when it shattered him. Maybe that knowledge, that fear, tempered any desire or frustrations I might have otherwise struggled with...the way he so often did.

There was a rather cruel sort of irony in that—me wanting to hold off on sex, while he nearly went mad with frustration from the lack of it. Because yes, I wanted to be with him again, fuck him again someday, though I could no longer deny that it would be so much more than that, and had been for a long time...but I could wait. I _would _wait, as long as I had to. Of course it hurt. Of course it was hard. Of course it sometimes drove me crazy, not being able to touch him and be with him the way I wanted. No one else could compare, and I'd never be truly satisfied, I knew, until I could be with him again, until he could love it as much as he once did.

But still, the fact remained...I could wait. As hard as it was, I really could. For him.

I tried to put myself in his shoes. I tried to imagine being so close to the thing I wanted above all, and being terrified of it at the same time. It wasn't too difficult; I felt the same, in a way. I wanted that for us, that piece of our relationship back. But at the same time, it scared me. Not for the reasons it scared him, but for very valid ones all the same.

Part of it was a simple fear over his reaction. I knew that one day, Justin would probably want to have sex with me again. And then I would be expected to fuck him, and that would scare the shit out of me. What if he freaked out and lost it completely? What if the emotional pain of it unhinged him or something? What if he couldn't come back from it the same way he had the other times? What if, after everything, I was the one to cause him more pain? That was a very real fear of mine, if and when the time came.

The other fear, possibly a lesser fear, but no less real...was what it would be like afterward. After so long, and with this new, horrible _thing _to alter and twist the beautiful thing we'd once had...what if it really wasn't the same? What if we never got back what we'd lost? Maybe we'd like it, maybe we wouldn't. Maybe that piece was gone forever, a perpetually missing piece of the puzzle.

I knew in some ways, it wouldn't matter. If over five solid months of nothing sexual whatsoever between us, in addition to monumental pain and tears and trauma on both sides, had done nothing to diminish the bond between us, the way I felt about him...I was sure that if, or when, we started having sex, even if it wasn't spectacular, we would still be okay. I was sure that anything would feel amazing to me, just because it was him, after all this time. Besides, it wasn't really me I was afraid for, anyway. It was his feelings, his expectations. I'd give anything to keep them from shattering and breaking his heart if he discovered, later, that the missing piece was destined to forever remain so.

Then again...as little as three months ago, I wasn't sure I'd ever see him smile again. I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to tease him, or kiss him, or do anything the way I used to. And now we had that back. I didn't used to imagine I'd ever be able to feel him against me, skin against naked skin, and we had that back, too. We had regained some of the best parts of our relationship, and it meant the world to me, after being so sure I had lost them all forever. Maybe sex would be more of the same.

It was like one of those inspirational stories you heard about. Learning of some nameless, faceless stranger's story as you listened to the unparalleled horrors in their past. They spoke of their sorrows, told you all about how they'd struggled, and then they told you that yes, it still hurt sometimes, and no, they'd never forgotten it, but...they'd moved on with their life. Found the strength inside them to persevere. And that was exactly what Justin was doing now. He'd processed it all long ago, dealt with the initial shock and horror of what had been done to him. He'd struggled through the first, most difficult few months, and still, here he stood, stronger than ever. He had graduated to the next stage, for the most part...moving on. Healing for real. Reviving those parts of himself that he had lost.

Unfortunately, the one part we didn't have was the part he seemed to want the most.

~.~

On Wednesday, I got a rather...well, a pleasant surprise, albeit a terrifying one. I'd gotten off work a little early, and decided to pick Justin up from his mother's and ask him if he wanted to go out to eat that night.

I let myself in with the key Jennifer had given me, and went to find them both. They weren't in the living room, or the kitchen, or any of the bedrooms or bathrooms. My heart thumping in my chest, I double checked each room of the house before concluding that they were definitely not there. What the fuck? Had there been some kind of emergency?

I had my cell phone in my hand within seconds of completing my search, hitting Justin's speed dial number. I'd definitely dropped him off here this morning, right? Where would he even willingly go?

He didn't answer his phone, and fuck, I didn't have Jen's cell. Why the fuck didn't I have her cell?

I was just starting to work myself into a real panic when the sound of the doorknob rattling jarred me from my thoughts. It swung open as I stood there, dumbstruck and halfway to a panic attack in the middle of the living room, and I was greeted by two familiar blonds and the miniature whirlwind that was Molly.

"Brian," Justin said, his face breaking out in what I recognized as relief, obviously unaware of the mini-heart attack going on inside my chest. "What are you doing here? You're early."

"Where the hell were you?" I asked, allowing relief of my own to wash over me like a much needed wave, quite forgetting to watch my language of front of Molly. I wasn't angry, just...scared. Fucking scared. Every time I felt anything remotely like it, I never stopped praying that it would be the last time. Now was no different. And could anyone even blame me for worrying, after all we'd been through?

"We went out for an early dinner, to celebrate Molly's soccer team winning the super bowl," Justin said brightly.

"Honey, it's not called a—never mind," said Jennifer, her voice somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "Sorry, Brian, we didn't know you'd be here so early, or we would have waited for you."

"No...don't worry about it," I said. The last thing I was worried about was missing an early dinner with the Taylors. I was more worried about—well, the Taylors themselves.

"We left a note," said Justin, seeming to sense my anxiety as came to kiss me hello, tugging off his jacket at the same time. "In the kitchen. Didn't you look?"

Any reply I might have given, however, was interrupted as something small and heavy rammed into my leg.

"Hi, Brian!" said Molly, looking even happier to see me than her brother. Christ, what was it about me and the Taylor family? If they weren't stalking me or bringing me duffel bags full of underwear at work, they were trying to kill me or rambling sixty miles an hour about soccer games.

"Hey, you gotta come see my trophy! Come _on!" _she insisted, grabbing my hand and trying to pull me towards the hallway.

"Why don't you go get it and bring it out here?" Jennifer suggested, sending Molly racing off in the direction of her room.

"So, you're here early," said Justin, sidling up close as Jennifer left us alone to go "check something" in any room that wasn't this one. "What's the occasion?"

"Well, I was gonna see if you wanted to go out tonight, but since you've already eaten...."

"Oh. Sorry. Well, we can go tomorrow, right?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah...tomorrow," I agreed. "How did you even...you went _out." _This realization was suddenly hitting me, now that the white buzz of panic had died away. "Without _me, _you...where did you go?"

"Just this pizza place Molly likes," he shrugged.

A smile was sneaking across my face, the familiar warmth of pride spreading from my gut. "And you're okay?"

"Fine," he said, returning my smile even as he let out a shaky breath. "I mean, my mom was there, and it wasn't very crowded at all at this time a day, and...."

His next words were cut off, however, as I leaned forward to capture his lips with mine.

**~. Justin .~**

Honestly, I wasn't nearly as together as I pretended to be. At least not on the inside. I'd been nervous and scared and reluctant to go out without Brian to hold my hand, but like I'd told him, my mom had been there, and the place had been nearly empty. I just hadn't wanted to disappoint my mother or my sister, who'd been so excited about her team's victory and the dinner she'd been promised.

It had been a few weeks since Brian and I had gone out to dinner for the first time, and we'd gone a couple of times since, usually when neither of us felt like takeout and I didn't want to cook. But I didn't think my mother or sister knew about my general reluctance to be in public, nor that Brian was the one that kept me together on the occasions that I did. And between not wanting to let Molly down and not wanting my mom to know just how skittish the idea made me, I'd somehow mustered the courage to do it. It had been difficult, but I'd gotten through it.

Now, though, I was back in my mom's condo, back in Brian's arms, relief seeping from every pore in my body. It was always—well, okay, usually—nice to get out, but coming back sure felt damn good afterward.

We ended up staying about another half an hour, enough time for Molly to wear herself out showing off her first place trophy and recounting each of her stunning plays to Brian, who listened raptly and provided commentary that excited her even more. Mom and I watched, fighting back grins at Brian's playfulness and Molly's post-win, exhilarated afterglow.

When we finally left, my little sister had reenacted her game-winning score at least four times, my mother had apologized twice more for unintentionally excluding Brian from our meal, and Brian himself was looking rather overwhelmed by the sheer amount of Taylor-ness surrounding him. To be fair, we really were a lot to take, especially all at once like this.

We let the blissful silence descend over us back inside the jeep. After a moment, he turned to me, his eyes warm and sincere.

"Just to let you know..." I waited as he apparently lost his nerve and averted his eyes to the road in front of him. "I'm uh...I'm proud of you."

"For today?" I asked. I got the feeling he'd been a little freaked out not to find us inside the condo when he'd arrived, but this had all seemed to dissipate when he'd found out what we'd done...what I'd done.

"For today," he repeated. He hesitated. "For all of it."

I smiled to myself, letting his warm words wash over me, basking in them.

"I'm proud of you too," I said, quietly but clearly, and I knew he heard.

"We do have to have a little talk though, Sunshine," he said, his tone suddenly sharp. I looked over at him to find a rather scandalized look on his face.

"About...what?"

"_Super bowl?" _he said, looking as though he was refraining, with great difficultly, to keep from rolling his eyes. _"Soccer? _You're shitting me, right?"

"It's...it's not called that?" I asked timidly. Well, what the fuck did I know about sports, besides which guys looked hot in the uniforms?

"No. No, it's not," he said shortly. "Do you know anything about soccer at all?"

"_Yes,"_ I said, somewhat indignant. "I know that you kick a ball. And that there's a goalie. But wait, which sport is the one with the home runs?" I asked, frowning.

He shook his head, his face a mixture of horror and hilarity. "Shit...we've got a lot of ground to cover."

**~. Brian .~**

It was Thursday, the day before his six-month check up at the clinic. Anxiety had been building in my gut all week. Kathy had wished him luck the previous Monday, and though I'd been having a miniature panic attack inside my own head at the time, he'd been quite calm all throughout that discussion. I actually thought I was more nervous than he was, though I did my absolute best to hide it. If he wasn't scared, there was no reason to freak him out with my own anxieties.

He was brushing his teeth at the sink when I stepped out of the shower that night. We'd gotten into a little—not really a fight, more like a spat—when I'd barged into the bathroom earlier during his own shower. Since 'the incident' the week before, I'd been nervous about leaving him in the bathroom out of my sight for any prolonged period of time. Not that five minutes could exactly be considered 'prolonged,' but that was beside the point. He seemed to have cooled down a bit, though, and I decided to test the waters when I saw him standing there in a truly ugly T-shirt and baggy sweatpants.

"You know, theoretically," I began, wrapping a towel around my dripping form. He glanced at me in the mirror, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. I fought a grin. "One of the benefits of being in a homosexual relationship—" He raised his eyebrow. Yes, fine, I'd used the stupid R word. What did he think this was? "Is doubling your wardrobe. That doesn't really work when the other guy is part elf and shops at the Gap."

"Fuck you," he said around his toothbrush. He leaned over and spit into the sink, looking fiercely indignant, an effect that was slightly ruined by the white toothpaste-foam still on his face. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Well, for one, they're about three sizes too small for me," I said, moving to stand behind him, peering over the top of his head at the mirror, as though to demonstrate exactly how much shorter he was than me. "And for another, being a fag has apparently done nothing for your sense of style."

He glared at me in the mirror and elbowed me in the stomach, causing me to back away with small grunt and a grin. "Well, next time I'll be sure to shop for my clothes with you in mind," he said sarcastically.

"Well, I am the one in charge of tearing them off you," I said, the quip out of my mouth before my brain could order it to drop dead in my throat. His eyes snapped to mine in the mirror, toothpaste still on his face, but I didn't even have the urge to laugh. I cleared my throat, immediately wishing I'd thought that comment through a little more. Fuck, it was just that...the way things were, now, so much lighter and easier between us...it made it so easy to forget it all and just...be with him, the way we always were. And it wasn't like I hadn't made these types of comments before, even lately, but nothing really alluding to our (non-existent) sex life in quite the same way.

He was still staring at me, as if wondering how he should respond. To my intense relief, a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, his eyes sparkling challengingly. "You are, huh?"

I let out a silent sigh of relief as he cupped his hands beneath the faucet and rinsed his mouth with the water he filled them with, apparently taking my words with a dose of nonchalance.

"Mmm," I said affirmatively, barely realizing what I was saying as he straightened up again, slowly closing the short distance between us. He wiped his dripping hands on my towel, smiling up at me, as if to show that he really was okay with the admittedly thoughtless comment I'd made.

He ran his hands over my bare chest, eyes following their path. He bit his lip, his fingers brushing against the top of the towel. He looked nervous, indecisive, and in an effort to spare him the decision, I slipped my fingers under his chin and pulled him up for a minty-toothpaste-flavored kiss.

As per usual, it didn't take long for us to start getting into it. Only once we'd stopped moving did I realize I'd backed him up against the sink, groping and kissing him. Not that he didn't do his fair share of both, as well. Twice more, his hands came to brush against the top of the towel, but they never made a move to drop it from around my waist.

Despite what Kathy had told him, he hadn't tried jerking off again since panicking in the shower. I couldn't blame him for being wary, not when I felt the same way. I waited, day after day, for a hint that he wanted me to help him take that next step, or even a blatant invitation, but it never came. Even Kathy, who'd told him not to let his fears take control of what he wanted, also stressed that it was important not to push himself if he wasn't comfortable. And maybe he just wasn't there yet. Maybe what had happened in that shower had been evidence to that.

Once again, my body acted before my brain could really assert its control, and I found my hands sliding up beneath the shirt I'd just teased him about, running over his smooth stomach and chest. He threw his head back to give me more room as I sucked at his favorite spot on his neck, the one I knew drove him wild. As I moved, the loosely-wrapped towel threatened to slip from around my waist; I broke contact with his chest with one hand to grab it in time to keep it from falling.

He didn't seem to notice as I tucked the edge back in, and merely continued to bask in his pleasure as I moved down to take advantage of the skin that was showing with his shirt pushed up around his collar bone. I was in an awkward position somewhere between bending and kneeling, worshiping his flawless skin and playing with his nipples. I teased the one with the ring thoroughly, then decided that it wasn't really fair to neglect the other. His breathing was harsh and ragged above me as I worked and played all at once, and I listened carefully for any signs of distress or panic. His hands were running through my hair, my tongue poking inside his belly button to tease and please him. I pressed another kiss right below it, above the waistband of his sweatpants, acutely aware of how close his cock was to my mouth right now, even though he didn't seem to be hard at all.

He'd asked me to help him take that next step...was he waiting for me to take the lead in this? Or was there a reason he hadn't initiated it? Were we just seeing how things unfolded? Slowly, I let my hand trail from his hip to the top of his pants. I let it rest there a moment, waiting to see what he would do. There was no change except that he might have gripped my hair a little harder. Still going slowly, just in case, I let my hand brush along his waistband before starting the decline down his pelvis.

"Don't." My hand was suddenly caught in his, pushed away from both our bodies. I looked up at him from my place on my knees on the floor; his eyes, shut tight just a moment ago, had popped open. His breathing was shallow and uneven, a frown etched onto his face as he ran his hands over it.

"Sorry," as usual, was the first thing out of his mouth. He shook his head as if to clear it, pressing his palms into his eyes.

"You okay?" I asked, ignoring the unnecessary apology completely, my hands rubbing at his hips and sides as soothingly as possible. I climbed to my feet, letting his shirt fall back over his stomach.

He nodded, his hands dropping from his face. "Fine."

"I shouldn't have done that," I muttered, cursing myself for my own boldness, arms slipping around his shoulders as I pulled him into my body.

"No," he said, but it was out of protest rather than agreement. "I told you I wanted you to do this with me...and I do, it's just...."

"Hard."

"Yeah," he agreed, sighing. "Look...I'm being stupid."

"You're not."

"I _am," _he insisted. "I told myself I wasn't going to let _him_ control my life and what I do with it. As long as I can't....he still has this fucking power thing over me."

"He doesn't," I said firmly. "You're not letting him control anything, Justin. It's not about power. Just because you're not where you want to be...it's like Kathy said, it's a lot for your mind to deal with. Give it a chance."

"I did, remember? I did, and I completely lost it."

"Justin," I said softly, pulling away to look him in the eye. "Look, remember...right after it happened? How you couldn't even kiss me at first?"

"Of course," he said quietly. He seemed to draw inside himself a little so that he looked smaller than ever, like even talking about that period of our lives took so much away from him.

I leaned forward and pressed my lips against his, kissing him passionately. We broke away after a few moments, both of us a little breathless. "See? We do it all the time now," I pointed out. "It just took a little time, a little patience."

"I _know," _he huffed, frustration tinging his tone. "But it's not just about not wanting him to win. I _want _to do this stuff...I miss it so much, Brian. I mean, you have to get that."

"I do," I said honestly. "I really...I do, Justin. But it's worth waiting for..._when _it happens."

His lips gave a little twitch as he gazed up at me. "When?"

"When," I repeated.

He nodded and let me pull him close again, let me kiss him long and deep. And as he moaned into my mouth, clutching at me as though his life depended on it, it left me without a doubt in my mind.

When.

**~. Justin .~**

I pulled the blankets back, punching my pillow into an acceptable shape before heading out to the kitchen to take one of my sleeping pills.

It had been the most shocking thing. Two nights ago, I'd come out here to pick one of the few pills out of the bottle, and instead discovered that it was nearly half full. It was completely out of nowhere; Brian hadn't told me he was doing it, but for whatever reason, he finally seemed to have decided that I could be trusted with it, at least this much. I wasn't entirely sure, but it seemed a reasonable guess that all of my medicine was now in these bottles on the counter.

On my way back to the bedroom, I stripped of the shirt and sweatpants Brian had made fun of earlier as he'd climbed from the shower. He was waiting for me in bed, blankets pulled up to his waist, his still-damp hair soaking his pillow. I scooted closer, rolling over on my side so that he could curl up to me, back to chest. He stroked my stomach gently as we laid there together, his words from our earlier conversation in the bathroom resonating inside my head.

As always, I knew he was right about waiting it out and taking things slow. But what if, after all the time in the world, nothing changed? What if what Brian and I used to have really was ruined for good? It had been one of my deepest fears for months, but never had it seemed quite so...imminent...as it did now. After that night last week in the shower.

There were so many good things that came from getting closer and closer to becoming sexual with him again, but there was also this whole new world of fears introduced. Some of them were the same fears from months ago, intensified now that the day seemed so much closer, and some of them were altogether new. So much of what had gotten us through was hope for a happier future...and now that this future had become our present, we had new things to worry about, prospects far more immediate these days than they'd ever been before. I'd wanted this more than anything, gone through so much to get to this place, and now that it was close enough to touch, I was afraid. What if I reached out, and nothing was there?

This fear that had been plaguing me for days had actually managed to eclipse the fear of my check up at the clinic tomorrow. Well, sort of. They came in shifts...sometimes, it would be fear over the clinic making me sick, and other times, I'd be going crazy with bursts of frustration. If anything, what had happened in that shower had only made me more determined that I _would _get through this fucking brick wall eventually.

Oddly enough, I was more—not relaxed, or unconcerned, exactly—but _relieved _about this last round of tests. This last time, where we'd know for sure, either way. This, I suspected, was the only thing that kept my sanity about me while we waited. Something Brian seemed to have been lacking the last couple days. There was little doubt in my mind that it was those tests that were keeping him on edge the way he'd been. We'd gotten this flier in the mail the other day, asking for a charitable donation to the local AIDS hospice; Brian had gone white when he'd seen it, crumpling it up and throwing it away as though he couldn't bear to even think about the disease having a presence in our lives.

He kept up his easy stroking of my stomach as we laid there, curled together, but that remained the _only_ thing he tried to stroke. Honestly, even beneath the frustration and the very real desire to be with him again, there really was a little part of me that was terrified to try it. Almost like the first time, the night I'd met him...I'd be so fucking scared, and yet...I'd wanted him more than anything. It was like that now, too, only this fear was so much _more..._so powerful and overwhelming, the panic something tangible when I forgot where I was, who I was with. I still wanted him more than anything, it was just...it wasn't as easy, this time, to reach out and take it.

I let the gentle stroking of my skin soothe me as much as possible, relaxing into Brian, telling myself that my biggest concern, right then, had to be getting through tomorrow. We'd do that, wait a week for my results, and then...well, then we'd take it from there.

~.~

On Friday morning, Brian took off work to drive me to the clinic. I'd assured him, as usual, that Daphne would take me so that he didn't have to miss work, but he insisted, unsurprisingly, on accompanying me, and despite my protests, I was glad to have him there.

His knuckles had turned white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly the whole way here. Now, both our fingers were white and numb, clenched within each other's, our nervous energy palpable even as we grounded each other. There were hardly any other people here, which I found myself appreciating. It was easy to pretend it was just Brian and me, in our own little corner, cut off from everyone and everything.

When my name was called, Brian accompanied me back to the little room the nurse led us to. I rolled up my sleeve while she prepared the needle, my heart thumping madly. Brian watched the vial fill with my blood, while I watched him and honestly thought he might be sick. I was scared, too, but I didn't think he had that same feeling of relief that I did...relief that one way or another, it would be over after this. I either had this thing or I didn't. Whereas he dreaded the day of the results, I almost looked forward to it. Either way it turned out, it was at least better than all these what-ifs suffocating us, closing in and trying to suck the peace and comfort out of our lives.

The whole thing took about a half an hour. There was a moment, when we stepped outside the clinic door, when the real nauseating panic hit me. They had it...my blood, the answers...they had my results in that little vial, and in a week, so would we. I took a deep breath and climbed into the jeep, muttering something in the affirmative when Brian asked me if I was okay.

Whenever I tried to wrap my brain around the concept of time that had passed since that night of the party, it only ever failed dismally at the task. Now was no different. I just couldn't get it into my head that it had been six months since then. It was unreal, how great an impact so little time could have. And yet, it seemed incredible that things hadn't changed more.

When I was kissing or laughing with Brian, or when I was around my friends and family, it all seemed so distant, like some nightmare I'd tried my hardest to repress. It was like it didn't fit into my life at all. Other times, like after what had happened during that shower, it still seemed so fresh, so painful, in the way that one little slip up could bring it all back so fiercely. I knew Brian and Kathy were right in that it would never _really _be forgotten. I could do all the moving on I wanted, but I couldn't run from my past. And whether I liked it or not, that night _was _a part of my past. A horrifying part that I'd give anything to erase, but a very real part, all the same.

We had dinner at Debbie's the day following my testing, during which I could barely focus on anything going on around me, distracted and hyper-aware of the fact that this time next week, I would most likely know my health status as a result of what had happened at that party. It would be over, that last thing that could physically hurt me...that last threat. They had tried their hardest to kill me, it seemed, in every way imaginable—emotionally, physically, health-wise—and this was it. The last thing they could possibly leave me with, except for the memories. The bruises were gone, the marks healed, the disease cured months ago...maybe they would always be a part of me in some ways, but in others, they were done with me, and I was done with them. They couldn't hurt me anymore. They couldn't have my life, my happiness..._that _was what my life had to be about now. Not them. It had to be mine. That was the only way I could get through this.

I was waiting in Deb's living room while Brian carried a tired, cranky Gus to Mel and Lindsay's car, when Ben appeared, detaching himself from the chaos of the kitchen as Debbie piled leftovers in containers for everyone to take home with them.

"Hey," he smiled at me. "Making the great escape, too, huh?"

I laughed. "Something like that."

"So...how've you been?"

"Not bad," I answered truthfully. "What about you?"

"Not bad," he repeated. We stood in awkward silence for a moment before he cleared his throat. "Justin...."

I glanced up at him, waiting as he appeared to struggle with his words, for once.

"I hope this isn't prying, but—when Michael and I were over at the loft a few weeks ago, I saw the medication on the counter."

Oh. Well...okay, I'd seen him catch sight of the pill bottles, and there wasn't much I could do about it...but why was he bringing it up?

"I..I didn't see any HIV medication," he continued. "I know this is probably none of my business, but...does that mean what I think it means?"

My first thought was that, really, it was incredibly kind of him to ask something like that, to show such concern. I remembered our talk, about three months ago now, the first time I'd come to dinner at Debbie's after I'd gotten hurt. He'd told me everything I'd needed to hear then, everything I'd wanted to know concerning HIV, and had apparently not forgotten the circumstances that had started that conversation.

I nodded. "Yeah...I actually just got my last round of tests done yesterday. I should know in about a week."

He looked relieved, offering me a small smile. "That's great, Justin. I mean, that you're okay so far."

"Yeah...thanks," I smiled back.

"Ready?" Brian was in the doorway, hanging back a bit, letting us finish.

"Yeah," I said, pulling on my coat. "Let me just go say bye to Deb one more time." I left the two of them in the living room and went to hug Debbie, still in the kitchen with Michael and Vic. When I at last returned to the living room, my arms laden with leftovers, Brian helped lessen me of my load, and together we carried it out to the jeep.

It was quiet for about the first five minutes. Then, as I knew he would, Brian brought it up.

"You know, at this point, it's pretty likely that you'll be okay, Justin. You were fine at the three-month mark. That's a good sign."

I wondered, if I could somehow get a glimpse of what was going through his head, what I'd find he was really thinking. He was still spouting the shit about being optimistic and all that, but his voice carried none of the confidence of his words. This was the most critical point, I knew. No more waiting and wondering and worrying. This was it.

"I know," I said. I had a feeling that, appearances aside, I was actually the one comforting him right now.

"And you know we'll deal with it...whatever happens."

"I know," I said again, letting out a deep breath, my gaze falling to the darkness flashing by outside the window. "I'm just...kind of trying not to think about it much."

He nodded. "Yeah."

As we drove in silence, I contemplated. I thought about my earlier conversation with Ben, about what he and Michael had to go through every time they had sex. That fear, that chance. Always that chance. Then again, it was also very much a choice with them. It hadn't been for me, taking that risk.

"Would you...I mean, I know what you said before about neither of us going anywhere, but...honestly, if I was positive, would you still...?"

Maybe in the car on a fifteen minute ride home from dinner wasn't the best time to have this discussion. I didn't care. I didn't think I could wait until "the right time" presented itself...the question burned at me, searing me inside with perpetual fear. He'd told me he wasn't leaving, wasn't going anywhere. He'd promised we'd deal with all of it. Now that the time had come, though, to face it...even if he didn't actually go anywhere, what right did I have to ask him to risk that with me?

He glanced at me from the driver's seat. "What?"

"Want to...you know...fuck me?" I mumbled.

It was quiet for a moment. It seemed like an hour. "We've been through this, Justin," he reminded me. "We'll deal with it. And we'd have condoms, we'd be safe."

A sharp pang seemed to strike me then. That was the thing, right there, the part that would be the most difficult. I could take the drugs and deal with the illness. It would be hell, but physically, I'd fight until I had nothing left. Just like Ben. Just like Vic. And they were both still going strong.

Emotionally...what would I do if I didn't have that with Brian? That comfort, that...hell, that _necessity?_ What if after everything, all we'd gone through these last six months, it never happened again? Yes, he was telling me that it wouldn't change a thing...but what if it changed everything for me? Could I do that? Take that chance with him? Let myself put him at risk that way?

I still remembered the last time we'd had sex before...before _It. _Before that fucking night had ruined everything. It had been so hot and sensual and perfect, like it always was with him. He'd lain across my body, my legs around his waist, pressing every inch of us together—kissing me, his tongue in my mouth so that he was filling me everywhere he could. And I'd let him, let him have all of me, fill every void, physically and emotionally. What would I have done, then, if I'd known that time would be the last for months to come? Maybe more? Maybe...maybe forever? Would I have treasured it more? Surely I would have. I would have held out, made it last, kept him inside me for as long as I could. Maybe I never would have let him go. Maybe we both would have been better off that way.

"It'd be fucking dangerous, Brian," I said, my voice dark and hollow.

He let out a huff of what might have been amusement. "Getting out of bed in the morning is dangerous, Justin."

"You know what I mean."

Another long silence but for the road rushing beneath our wheels and fellow late-night travelers outside. "It'd be worth it," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Whatever the risk...it's worth it."

But was it? Would it be worth it to _me? _Would it be worth risking his life? Could anything ever be worth that to me?

"People do it, Justin," he said, as though he knew perfectly well what I was thinking. "All the time. It's a choice."

"Well, I didn't have one," I said, a little bitterly. "You do."

"Exactly," he said. "I do."

I sighed and leaned back in the seat. He didn't get it. He _couldn't _get it. If it was the other way around—if _he'd _been the one fearing for his own health status, I knew without a doubt he'd feel the same way I did. He'd never want to put me at risk. Ever. I still remembered the one and only time I'd ever asked him to fuck me without a condom. It was obvious how much the request had scared him, not only where it concerned his own safety, but mine. Later, after he'd fucked me, protection included, he'd made me promise that I'd never, ever have sex with anyone without a condom. I'd promised, rather bitterly then, irritated with the heat with which he'd turned me down. Now, I understood it. Even appreciated it, especially now that I'd had that choice taken away from me. They hadn't given me that same respect, that same concern that Brian had had for me that day. All he'd wanted was for me to be safe, and they'd just...they'd ruined that. Put this fear in my life. Put this danger in it.

Maybe he was right in that he had a choice. After all, Ben and Michael made it. Other people made that choice all the time.

But the thing was...it was also _my _choice. And I wasn't sure I could make it the way he wanted me to.

~.~

The next day I awoke to a sleepy Sunday morning—my favorite time of the week. Normally, this was the day Brian and I just lounged around in bed together, talking and kissing, then got up and did a hell of a lot of nothing.

Today, though, Brian had apparently woken up before me and gotten bored. He was nowhere to be seen, though this might have had something to do with the fact that I hadn't opened my eyes further than it took for the sun to potentially blind me. I laid there for a while, drifting in and out of consciousness, occasionally straining my ears for a hint of Brian about the loft.

During one of my semi-conscious stints, I heard the stairs creek near the foot of the bed, and Brian's padded footfalls.

"Morning," I mumbled with a yawn, not bothering to open my eyes. I really didn't want to test my theory of potential blindness.

Brian's footsteps went quiet, as if he'd frozen. With what I considered to be a great amount of effort, I spoke again, my voice still hoarse with sleep.

"Where'd you go? I woke up and you were gone."

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a snicker came from his general direction. "I had to get out of bed sometime this morning."

"Never thought I'd hear you say _that."_

"Touché. But it _was_ after ten, and you were still snoring."

"Don't snore," I muttered grumpily, finally forcing my eyes open against the cruel assault of the sunlight.

"My mistake. It must have been the other hot blond drooling all over my pillow," he said sarcastically. He couldn't have been up long; he hadn't even gotten dressed yet, clad only in a pair of sweatpants, his hair sticking out in every direction. Frankly, he looked pretty damn adorable, though I knew he'd kill me for ever even using him and _that word_ in the same sentence.

"Fuck you...don't _drool," _I protested this crossly, wiping a bit of saliva from the side of my cheek before he caught it.

He snickered again. Inwardly, I cursed him for sounding sexy even when he was mocking me.

"C'mere," I told him, eyes falling closed again. I followed his footsteps to his side of the bed, and then the mattress beneath me shook as he threw himself down on it beside me. Apparently taking notice that I was far too sleepy and comfortable to consider moving, he rolled his way over to my side of the bed and just sort of sprawled his body over mine, a leg over me, an arm over my torso, his breath stirring the top of my hair. He was even warmer than the little cocoon of blankets I'd formed around me, and I found myself leaning into the heat of his body.

For a while, we just laid there, not speaking or moving, just enjoying the simple pleasure of a Sunday morning free of obligations. Both of us naked from the waist up, I maneuvered myself into him, little by little until our bodies were pressed together, my lips an inch from his throat. It occurred to me that, clothing wise, our usual positions were reversed; this must have been what he'd felt like all those months, wearing boxers at night while I wore pants. Their presence kind of frustrated me now; I wanted as much of Brian against me as I could get. His clothes were soft, but his skin was still far more preferable to have pressed against mine.

Slowly, I began to truly wake up, surrendering a little reluctantly to the day. As I came alive, I teased him, pressing little kisses wherever I could reach. He murmured low in his throat, his hands rubbing up and down my back. I felt his lips peck the top of my head—the only place _he _could reach without greatly disturbing our positions. I tilted my head up, and he granted me the kiss I sought, hot and sweet and tasting like coffee.

Having much more interesting things on my mind now than sleep, I rolled myself over on top of him so that we were chest to chest and kissed him again. His hands came up to play in my hair, as they always did. He really loved it longer, I think. I stroked his own still-sleep-mussed hair back from his face, running my fingers through the wayward strands. I kissed down his jaw, his neck, up to his ear; he gave a playful noise of amusement and halfheartedly tried to twist out of my reach, smiling. I grinned back, and resumed my efforts. I found myself thinking that he even tasted like a Sunday morning as I kissed his chin, the corner of his mouth, the rough stubble of his unshaven cheek. He managed to capture my mouth with his, his tongue coming out to stroke mine leisurely.

His hands, so sure as they played in my hair and rubbed my back, seemed to stall as they neared the waistband of my underwear. Slowly, tentatively...he brushed against it, just the band itself. Our breathing mingled in the air between us, time coming to a halt. Would he do it? I wanted him to. I wanted him to touch me, beneath or above the fabric, it didn't matter. It felt good, and I wanted it, and I didn't want to think twice. I was done thinking twice and wondering if I could or what I could do. I just wanted it to happen. Wanted to let it happen.

He didn't seem to get the message though. Or else he did, and decided I was playing it too risky, because next second, his hands had moved back up to my hair as time resumed.

Maybe he just didn't know...maybe he didn't know that it felt good, and that I wanted his hands on me. Maybe I had to take the first step there. Show him I could, that I was ready, that I could handle it.

_Could_ I handle it, though? Well, that was the million dollar question, wasn't it?

Remembering how good it had felt the last time I'd done this, I kissed down his chest, stopping to play with his nipples with my lips, rolling my tongue across one, then the other. He hissed, his hands stilling, now on my back again. I could feel his erection pressing insistently against me as I moved over him, kissing and sucking where I saw fit, and my own dick gave a reciprocal twitch. God, nothing was like this. Nothing was like tasting him, kissing him, causing him to make these noises. Nothing to compare it to, nothing to force its way into the present with memories from the past.

I wondered if he appreciated the obvious role reversal in our situation as I sat up, reaching for the band of his sweatpants and giving a tug. His head shot up off the pillow, looking up at me questioningly.

"I want...I want them off," I said, feeling a flush creeping into my cheeks. He just looked at me for a moment through lust-filled eyes, probably wondering whether my judgment could be trusted or not, then nodded. Heart racing, I moved aside to help him pull off his pants, casting them to the end of the bed.

Slowly, I lowered myself back across him, his cock still straining urgently against me, and kissed him again. I felt my own dick give another throb in my boxers as he pulled me to him, kissing me, long and hard. His tongue poked teasingly between my lips, then drew back out, leaving me wanting more. He evaded my mouth, however, and leaned up to lick the shell of my ear, making me gasp. I was starting to get hard, now, really hard, and the idea thrilled me as much as it scared me. This had only happened twice before...well, recently, anyway. The first time had been the first in months, a happy occasion...celebratory. The second had led to me to a panic attack in the shower.

I kissed Brian again, my lips lingering on his. Slowly, eyes closed, I pulled away.

"Take them off." My voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper, a sound of disbelief even to my own ears.

"What?" Brian asked, trying to raise his head to catch my lips with his once again. I leaned away, never taking my eyes off him.

"Off. Your boxers. I want them off."

He stared at me, but I was resolute in my decision. I only hoped he'd do it before I lost my nerve and changed my mind.

"What are you doing?" he asked softly.

"I want to see...what it feels like. I mean, I don't know if...I just want to see," I told him, running a hand through my disheveled hair. "Take them off, please, Brian."

Maybe it was his name, or maybe it was the plea, but whatever it was, it had the desired effect. His gaze never wavering from mine, I shuffled off him as he sat up and slowly began sliding the fabric over his hips, down his legs. I felt jittery all over, nerves and excitement shortening my breath and pricking at my skin like needles, causing goosebumps to break out along my arms.

Even if I hadn't known how hard he was before, I could see it all now. He didn't make a move to hide it, for which I was grateful, just let me sit there and look at him. I wanted to tell him how beautiful he was, but a lump got stuck in my throat when I tried to force out the words, making it impossible. I wondered what it would feel like to touch him. Wondered if I dared.

He was just sitting there, staring at me, watching my eyes rake over his body. It wasn't as though I hadn't seen him naked a million times before, even more recently. But something about sitting here in bed with him like this felt so intimate, so exciting, robbing me of my breath. I wondered if he felt this thing between us, too...this fucking intense energy, vibrating in the air between our bodies. Heat. Lust. Love.

I took a deep breath, and made up my mind.

Slowly, so slowly, shaking slightly as my nerves got the best of me, I moved to pull my own underwear down and off, tossing them aside on top of Brian's discarded pants.

His eyes swept over my body, lingering for a moment longer on my half-hard cock than anything else. I wondered what filthy things were going through his mind right now, but figured I could probably guess.

War raged inside me at the thought of kissing him like this. On one hand, the rapid beating of my heart and certain other places full of blood at the moment were desperate for it. On the other hand, the nervous twisting of my stomach and the jittery feeling beneath my skin warned against it. So for the longest moment, we just sat there, eyes glued to each other's bodies.

"If you kiss me, can we go slow?" I asked before I could stop myself. It was a stupid question. A needless question. I knew Brian would never take this anything but slowly.

He nodded, seemingly transfixed. He looked even more nervous than I felt. "As slow as you need," he promised.

I swallowed, hard, and nodded. Cautiously, I moved towards him, sidling up close. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then let me in. We kissed chastely, slow and easy, as promised. I could feel our cocks, pressing into each other, and felt a nervous jolt of panic shake me.

I pulled away, my breathing erratic, my lungs working themselves harder than usual from mingled arousal and terror.

"I'm okay," I assured him when he looked alarmed and reached to lay a steadying hand on my knee. Nothing too horrible. Nothing I couldn't shake off. He was here. He was here, in front of me, real and close enough to touch. I was safe. "You're here. I'm okay."

He was nodding, looking as though he didn't really believe that _I _believed what I was saying. I ran a hand over my face, pushing hair out of my eyes, and leaned in to kiss him again, our bodies barely touching, connected by the lips. I wondered what it would feel like to press myself against him, let him hold me. I wasn't sure I could do anything in the way of sex, but I wanted to know, just wanted to feel him.

Little by little, I moved closer, my skin blazing with heat wherever it brushed his. I was almost in his lap, now, on top of him, fear and desire battling for dominance inside me. God, this was good...so incredible...so _bare.... _

As little as a month ago, the prospect of doing anything like this had still felt so far off, so much for me to handle. It scared me still sometimes, to feel so vulnerable. But I didn't. Not right now, here, with him. I felt...sexy. Sexy and desired and desirable. It felt natural. Right.

"You feel so good...." he murmured, so tenderly I thought for a moment I'd imagined it.

"You too," I whispered back, feeling warm despite the lack of clothes, and comfortable, sitting in the V of his legs."So good...this feels good."

He nodded, his hand sifting through my hair as my fingers stroked his face, kissing each other over and over, chaste and sweet but hot and oh so wonderfully real.

I caught a hint of his tongue, but it was gone before I could welcome it inside my mouth. I wondered if I dared to let him touch me. Like, _really _touch me. Probably not. I wondered if I'd feel differently if we'd already gotten my test results back. Maybe. It was a pretty big maybe, but it was hard to tell where one fear ended and where the next began, all of them swirling inside me and fusing with sensations of longing to create an indistinguishable mixture of contradictory confusion. It pulled me in every direction, nonstop. Touch him. Don't touch him. Get closer. Push him away. Let him. Stop him. Do this. Don't.

He was pulling me in, our bodies pressed against each other, the distance between them closing and becoming almost nothing. I brushed against his cock as I moved, making him groan.

_Do it, do it, do it. _

Part of me wanted it; there was no denying that desire existed. But what about the part that hissed at me to take this slow? What about the part that was terrified of seeing_ Those _images inside my head again? What about that voice, that voice that spat at me that it was reckless and irresponsible to put Brian's health at risk this way?

Well...maybe we didn't have to do anything that would put it at risk. There were safer ways, after all, to get off.

_Come on, come on, come on. _

Could I do it? Could I touch him...let him touch me? Could I let myself have that again? What if I ruined it? I couldn't remember ever feeling as amazing as I did at that moment, like my very skin was on fire, in the best way possible. I didn't want to let that go.

I pushed him gently back against the pillows, crawling on top of him. We were naked, really _naked _with each other, feeling absolutely everything, and oh God, it felt so fucking incredible. I burrowed into his warmth, our bodies fitting together as though they'd been molded especially to accommodate the other.

And it didn't feel scary, really. The idea of doing anything more made me ridiculously nervous, but this, right here...this was good. This was right. Brian was warm and he tasted like coffee, his hands somehow strong and gentle at the same time, smoothing themselves down my back, over my sides, tentatively cupping my bare ass in his palms and sending pleasant shivers throughout my body. He made me feel surrounded, wrapped snugly in a cocoon of him.

It felt so fucking good I wanted to cry.

It felt like living.


	30. Risk

**A/N: I know, it took me forever to get this one out. But this chapter's twice as long to make up for it :)**

**~. Brian .~**

I wondered if anyone had ever died from a sheer overload of sensation.

It was as though life had done its best to give me a moment in complete contrast to the worst I'd ever lived through...whichever one that was. There were several to pick from. I used to think my childhood had been the most painful thing I'd ever suffer through, but back then, I hadn't known Justin, hadn't realized the amount pain he was capable of causing me. I'd had several of the worst days of my life in the last couple of years, all revolving around him...the night he'd been bashed, when I'd found out he'd been raped, the night he'd nearly taken his own life...take your pick.

But maybe life, or God, or fate, or whatever the fuck you wanted to call it had figured I'd had enough, that I was owed a little relief, some happiness. That we were _both _owed some happiness.

And that was why I was lying beneath Justin now, caught up in kisses, our clothing cast aside, the last barrier between us shed.

There was no fucking. No blow jobs. No getting off. It was just touching, our bodies wrapped around each other, stupid, cringe-worthy lesbionic thoughts and words running through my head on the rare occasion it wasn't preoccupied with thoughts of Justin's skin and Justin's lips and how good it felt to have Justin's body pressed against mine.

To kiss him like this, to have him finally be able to trust enough to open himself up and leave himself so literally bare...it was better than anything I could think of...better, by far, than any orgasm I'd had in the last six months without him. Part of my brain cursed me for being such a lesbian, but then there was the other part, arguing that it was _Justin, _for Christ's sakes, and he was warm, and naked, all smooth skin and soft lips and breathy gasps, and I could actually fucking _feel _him again, and why shouldn't that feel amazing?

I'd been surprised, a little nervous, when he'd requested the removal of my underwear, and even more so when he'd taken off his own. Seeing me was one thing; being naked with me, touching and kissing me like that, was quite another.

I moaned into his mouth, my fingers clenched in his hair. He had my face in his hands, kissing me with everything he had, every ounce of passion he'd always given me. And I kissed him back with equal fervor. It was a constant struggle, maintaining a firm rein over myself and the situation, while trusting him to make his own decisions and stop me if he needed to. He let my hands glide down his back, over his ass. He let my tongue inside his mouth, let me hold him close and kiss him as though it had been years since the last time we'd done this.

This was, I told myself firmly, as far as we were taking this right now. This was too big a step to risk losing it all with one of his panic attacks. At this point, I shuddered to think what would happen if he suffered a flashback.

Risks. Hell, wasn't _everything _we did a risk? Fucking walking outside the loft was a risk. Daring to look through his sketchbooks was an emotional risk. Anything remotely sexual in nature was a risk with him.

It crossed my mind that risks didn't necessarily have to be a bad thing. In this case, it was certainly paying off. I tried to remember the last time I'd felt like this, like something airy and lighthearted inside me was expanding, inside my chest and lungs and body, filling me up and threatening to take me away and never let my feet touch the ground again. It was better than getting high. Better than anything I could ever remember feeling with anyone. It was like an orgasm in the way it was just like tension and relief and release and floating and falling all at once. All this, and neither of us had even come.

But wasn't this still fucking huge? I mean, nudity was, generally speaking, a pretty common requirement for sex, right? And this...this proved that he could handle that, at least. Maybe his mind wasn't quite ready for what we used to have, maybe he hadn't quite let all those old connections go...but we were enjoying a level of comfort with each other that we hadn't experienced in months.

On the other hand, he also wanted it more than pretty much anything, which meant it was probably only a matter of time before it happened. What Justin wanted, Justin went after, and usually got, in the end. In a lot of ways, this worried me; it didn't take much for him to become discouraged these days, and when that happened, he had a regular tendency to push himself even harder, which only ever seemed to result in disaster. He expected way too much of himself, that was the problem. The driving forces behind his desire for more were slowly winning over, though, overcoming the fear and the doubt and the nerves.

These days, what simultaneously frustrated and enticed him the most was the prospect of our "old" lives, feeling closer than they had in months. He was hovering somewhere between fear and determination, in a gray shaded area of mingled desire and hesitance. He wanted it, was frustrated by the lack of it, but at the same time was scared of it, and nervous about disappointing us both. He'd wanted it for so long, but now that there was actually a possibility of it in the here and now, I think it scared him.

But he'd always overcome his fears, hadn't he? He'd always been so fucking brave, something I loved about him. Not because he lived without fear, but because his determination was always so much stronger. He was stronger than it, than _them, _than Hobbes and Sap and his father and the world.

That was, after all, the reason I was lying here beside him, was it not? The reason for all he'd accomplished in these last six months? And I just couldn't help the thoughts that flashed—uninvited, but not totally unwanted—through my head. Couldn't help envisioning what it might be like, someday, when he was ready again. And it was just so easy, here with him like this. I imagined pushing inside him, engulfed in his tight heat...thought about what his face would look like, his eyes...wondered if they'd look the same as they always had before. I imagined moving inside his body, watching his expression transform as the pleasure overcame him. Watching him enjoy it again. Watching him lose himself. I imagined him telling me he loved me, imagined myself making some sarcastic quip, and then returning the sentiment with a kiss, or a whisper. Imagined him forgetting all about everything else, and just knowing that I'd been the last one inside him, taking comfort in that, _loving _that...the same way I loved this...loved—

Loved _him. _

And maybe it was a chance, a gamble, even to be with him like this.

But slowly—surely—the rewards were beginning to outweigh the risks.

~.~

"Try D-I-L-D-O," I suggested from my place spread across the couch, flipping my way through one of the sketchbooks Justin had left lying about.

He gave me an exasperated look from where he was sprawled on his stomach on the floor. "For one thing, that's five letters. For another, a dildo—however functional—isn't considered to be a 'well-known evolutionary theoretician' in any context I'm aware of."

"Well, you're the one who got 1500 on his SATS," I shrugged, tilting my head to admire a particularly detailed drawing of me in bed...sans the blankets. "I'm just some poor D-U-N-C-E."

He rolled his eyes, grinning. "I think it must be 'Darwin.'

"Since when do you do crosswords, anyway?"

"Since I knew three of the answers."

I huffed a laugh, flipping a little harder than necessary through a few pages on which his "Rage" drawings were sketched. "The problem with the ones in the paper like you're doing are that you generally have to have been alive for at least around—oh, two decades or so—to actually understand what they're talking about. And as I'm sure you're aware, you fall just a _little_ short." I threw a smirk in his direction.

"_Three-horned herbivore from the Cretaceous Period,"_ he read from the newspaper, ignoring me completely. "Hey, you were around back then, what's the answer?"

My own cynical retort, however, was interrupted by the sound of my cell phone ringing and vibrating its way across the counter in the kitchen.

"Saved by the bell, Sunshine," I joked, leaning down to smack his ass lightly on my way to answer my phone.

"Yeah, I'm terrified," he said, and I could just sense the eye-roll in his tone. "One of these days, I'll meet my bitter end after you...what, sarcastic-ize me to death?"

Pillar of maturity that I was, I made a face at him behind his back before flipping open my phone. Michael's cheerful greeting filtered into my ear.

"Hey, Mikey...." I ducked out of the way as something small and white came flying—literally, flying—towards me. A paper airplane of Justin's creation, folded from a sheet torn from his sketchbook. I picked it up, smoothed it out, and bit back a laugh at the doodle—a three-horned, apparently herbivorous dinosaur that he'd drawn beside a stick-figure that I suspected was intended to be me.

Only half-listening to Michael's rambling on the phone, I returned to the spot where Justin was lying across the floor, his crossword arranged in front of him. I held up his drawing with my eyebrows raised. He returned the look with a smirk, then snatched the paper out of my hand.

I settled myself on the couch near him, watching while he sketched additions to the page. After a few minutes during which Michael invited me for a night out at Woody's the upcoming week, Justin held up the drawing again, this time featuring the stick-figure of me, and what I gathered was supposed to be a stick-figure of himself, a cheesy little heart drawn in the space between their heads. Twat. He was definitely doing this on purpose. I rolled my eyes, causing his devious grin to widen.

He poured over the paper again, his arm over the top to block my view, and I continued to half-heartedly participate in my conversation with Michael while trying my best to see what Justin was doing now.

After another short while, he held up his new drawing, which again consisted of stick-figure versions of the both of us. Only this time, we were kissing, our stick-thin little arms around each other's stick-thin little bodies, and what I gathered were stick-versions of our—ahem—_sticks _pressed together.

I snorted into the phone. "No...no, I'm not laughing at you, Michael...I realize the mortal peril of fictional comic characters is of the utmost importance to life in general," I said, biting back another laugh at his irritated, 'fuck you, asshole.'

Meanwhile, Justin was getting up, an evil glint in his eye, slowly climbing on top of me and straddling my legs. I raised an eyebrow at him, but he merely gave me this little pseudo-innocent smirk that was anything but.

"Yeah...that's fine...." I struggled not to moan my responses as Justin's lips found my neck and began laying fluttering kisses over it. _"Christ,_ that feels good...no, not you, Michael...." I felt Justin's snicker against my skin. Right before he began sucking on it.

"I really...yeah, but..._ugh..." _I groaned as Justin's tongue came out to lick at my ear, his knee moving just the wrong way—or the right way, depending on how you looked at it—against me. He continued to tease me as I tried, though admittedly not all that hard, to move him off me. After a solid five minutes of his relentless ministrations, I couldn't hold of any longer. "Listen, Mikey, I gotta go. I'll call you later."

Justin was still laughing when I hung up.

"Just wait 'til you're trying to talk to Daphne," I warned him, though I couldn't exactly say I was pissed. Or even annoyed. Or anything but amused and slightly turned on, really.

He shrugged. "She got used to it years ago." Okay, probably true. I still remembered the one time I'd made Justin come while he was on the phone with his mother; he'd been pissed at me for about five whole minutes, until I'd stuck a finger in his ass and he'd forgotten all about it.

His fingers were curled lightly in my hair, his weight warm and comfortable on top of me, memories of Sunday morning flashing, unbidden but not entirely unwelcome, through my head. And then we were kissing, his lips meeting mine almost automatically, opening beneath the gentle insistence of my tongue. His fingers sifted through my hair as he nuzzled my nose with his, playfulness giving way to something that felt a lot like tenderness between us.

His knees were on either side of me, my arms around his back, both of us barely taking the time to draw breath. I lowered us carefully across the couch, him on top of me, my hand cupping his neck to pull him in closer, always closer. His breath was warm and pleasant as it mingled with mine in the air between us, and his skin was even more desirable as my hand found its way up his shirt.

"Mmm..." I groaned as he left my lips and began a hungry assault on my neck. One hand was twisted in his hair, the other resting on his back. My eyes slipped closed, giving into the pleasure even as another part of my brain, probably the part furthest away from the area that controlled my dick, sat guard and watched, waited, warned me to keep a tight rein over myself and the situation in general as things continued to intensify.

It wasn't long before we were making out pretty heavily, Justin's shirt having been tossed over the side of the couch, and my own jeans starting to feel uncomfortably tight. His tongue—God, his tongue was doing the most amazing things to my ear, that spot on my neck he knew I loved, everywhere in between. After a while, though, it wasn't enough, and I had to kiss him again, pulling him back up and pushing my tongue into his mouth.

His body was squirming and writhing pleasantly on top of mine, kissing and grasping and gasping...he was unbuttoning my shirt, hands and lips teasing each inch of skin as it was revealed to him. It felt good—better than I could have imagined—to have this back with him, this casual comfort in this, of all things.

It had only been a few days since our first time being naked with each other, that Sunday morning in bed. And it had only happened once more since then—well, sort of. He'd climbed into the shower just as I was getting out, both of us baring it all, and he'd kissed me. It was short and chaste, but it was a kiss, all the same. It was pathetic that just being near him made me feel so—well, so _much. _But there was no getting around my body's reaction to him. There never had been.

He seemed to have no trouble kissing me like this, though, both of us still mostly clothed, him lying on top of me, hands and lips anywhere and everywhere they could reach. We were like a couple of teenagers who had a vacant house to themselves, making out on the couch, hovering nervously between what we both wanted and going too far.

I leaned up, burying my face in the warmth of his skin, sucking a mark into the place where his shoulder met the base of his neck. He moaned his appreciation, his neck arching erotically to give me more room. My hands traced every part of his body I knew and treasured so much...his face, his shoulders, his back, the curve of his ass beneath his jeans. I felt his breath catch as I cautiously slipped a hand down the back of his pants, trailing a finger along his crack. He didn't stop me or tense up, but kept on kissing me, and I took that as a good sign. Definitely positive.

"Brian," he whispered breathlessly, his fingers clenching almost painfully in my hair. It didn't sound like a plea to back off, so I continued to enjoy his body as he leaned into me, his lips meeting mine time after time.

"Love you...." he breathed. "I want...Brian, I want to...."

"What?" I asked, his words not sinking in. I got my answer, however, when his fingers began trailing across my now bare chest, over the waistband of my jeans, and brushed against my cock through the material.

I groaned from the gentle pressure, fighting the instinctual urge to arch into his hand. I pushed away thoughts of pleasure and his hands on me and getting off, however, and forced myself to look at his face. He looked nervous, his lip caught in between his teeth, his eyes uncertain. But even beneath all that there blazed a fierce determination.

"Justin...are you sure?" I asked, my heart beating rapidly against my ribcage. Was he...fuck, was he ready for this? Was _I_ ready to take him there?

"Just...I mean, I don't think I can...you know—for real," he stammered. His body was tense against mine, his voice wavering with nerves. "But...I think I—I want this. I mean, I...I _do_ want this," he amended quickly.

Fuck. Could have fooled me. "Justin...maybe this isn't the best—"

"Please."

He looked at me, all blue eyes and plump lips and something I just couldn't place, but that I'd never been able to say no to. Shit, what were we doing? "Slow," I warned him. Fuck, we didn't even have our pants off yet. How could he even be sure he wanted this? Or rather...I knew he wanted this, but how could he be sure he could handle it? "We take it slow, and if you need to stop—"

"I'll tell you," he promised.

I nodded, accepting his vow for the truth. My stomach was doing flips, my heart throwing itself repeatedly against my ribcage as if it knew, somehow, that what was about to happen—or rather, what had the possibility of happening—would be almost too much for it to handle.

He may have been determined, he may have thought he was sure about this, but I wasn't. This seemed more like some reckless impulse than anything else, born of desire and arousal and sexual frustration, that inborn determination that was both his most valuable strength and, at times, his greatest downfall.

My eyes never wavering from his, I pulled him down for a kiss that made me feel like I was melting from the inside out. Or burning, maybe. Christ—Justin reduced me to some kind of fucking human candle. I found, however, that it felt so damn good that I didn't care right then what he turned me into, as long as that flame of courage and hopefulness and resolve continued to burn brightly in his eyes.

I wasn't sure where, exactly, this was heading; he'd said he didn't think he could do it 'for real.' Did that mean he didn't think he was ready to—God, I hated this phrase, so juvenile—'go all the way?' So, he wasn't ready for actual fucking, but he wanted to try something else? That was probably the safer way to go. Could he even handle that much, though? He was just barely comfortable being naked with me as it was.

He hadn't made a move to take off my pants, but he'd unbuttoned his own, and was palming my dick through my jeans while I swallowed several curses and a few particularly lesbionic phrases that I refused to let slip from my tongue at the moment. I wished I could see the expression on his face, but he had his lips attached to my neck, lying half on top of me. I wondered if he was keeping his face hidden on purpose, if he didn't want me to see whatever was there.

He was moving more slowly, now, his kisses less frantic, his movements less sure. I knew he wanted this, had wanted it for a very long time, and I knew that being naked with me a few days before had probably only increased that desire. Not to mention it had proved that he could handle being with me that way, which was apparently enough to convince him that going for this was a good idea. Well...just because he'd freaked out the first time he'd tried it alone, it didn't necessarily mean he would if I was here with him, right? Fuck, I desperately hoped I wasn't just trying to convince myself, here.

"Justin...." I fought to keep my eyes open, tried to watch him, make sure.... "Justin, slow down."

"I'm fine," a breath against my lips, a kiss...brief and fleeting.

"Justin..." But the warning quickly gave way to a groan. God, he got to me like no one else. But...did I want it to happen like this? If we were really doing this, after all this time...I mean, yeah, I wanted to get off, feel him on me...but after everything, shouldn't_ he _be the first one to enjoy it again?

"Justin...let me—" I shifted, trying to stop him, move him off me.

"Brian, I said I'm—" His words were interrupted by the small 'thud' of his sketchpad, the one I'd been looking through earlier, sliding from its previous position half-beneath me onto the floor.

His eyes went to it immediately, an automatic reaction of curiosity. I watched as his entire expression changed, closed off, lust and nerves and determination giving way to distant pain and disgust—an expression I'd seen him wear far too many times to count.

He sat up, suddenly looking small and somehow a little broken, seeming to shed his passion and determination with his confidence.

"Justin...."

"Sorry," he said, giving his head a little shake, as though hoping whatever had just imprinted itself in his brain might just fall right out of his ear.

Not wanting to see, but needing to, I sat up and peeked over the side of the couch at the drawing he'd done that had landed face up on the floor beside us.

Fuck.

It was one of those "Rage" drawings of his. He'd been doing these little sketch-stories for a while now, each one entertaining a certain scenario involving his two main characters. Some of them were almost hopeful in their endings, others were just plain hot, and still others were downright horrible in their content. Some I liked to read, some I had to force myself to, and some just made me want to fucking hug him and hold him and kiss him and never let him go.

This...well, this was certainly one of the less cheerful ones.

And this was in his mind now, I could tell, and combined with the nerves he'd already been suffering from, I could see why he'd stopped.

I sat up further, coming to join him at the other end of the couch. He wasn't crying and he didn't look angry, just...empty. Like he'd just been promised the world only to have it yanked from beneath his feet at the last minute.

Fuck. Always those fucking reminders to ruin it all.

I touched his arm tentatively, and he sighed, his shoulders slumping in what could only be described as defeat. He ran a hand over his face, pushing hair out of his eyes. "Shit...fuck, Brian, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I assured him, not sure what else to say. To this day, even after everything, I was still never sure exactly what to say to lend comfort to someone, even him. As he'd pointed out so many times before, I didn't understand what it was like to be inside his head. I could only guess at when he wanted comfort, when he wanted me to back off, what the right words were to say, or when nothing I said would do any good.

But I could get why that drawing had gotten to him. Hell, just the thought of it was enough to make me lose my hard on; it made sense that it also had the power to ruin his...sex drive? Justin had a sex drive now? Or, rather, again? But the problem with this was that he was now thinking about something totally different than sex with me. He was thinking about the vicious imitation of it that he'd been put through before, and that was certainly _not _a good condition for trying what he'd been wanting to try with me.

Without warning, he slid from beneath the arm I'd draped across his shoulders and plopped cross-legged on the floor, his eyes not meeting mine. "I think I'm gonna do some more of my crossword."

"Justin—"

"I'm fine, okay? Just forget about it. I'm sorry I can't—" He waved his hand in my general direction, his voice sounding close to breaking. He rubbed his palm over his eyes, and I wondered if there were tears there he wasn't letting me see.

I let out a deep breath, my brain still struggling slightly to catch up with the situation, the fact that this was not going to happen, not here, not today. It felt like a blow to the gut, not only because of the loss itself, but because of the reason. Fuck, it always came back to that one fucking night, didn't it? No matter how far we'd come, there were still these fucking reminders every time we turned around to take us back.

I slid down off the couch to sit beside him, watching him take the pencil tip thoughtfully between his teeth, his eyes never leaving his paper. They weren't wet or shiny in the least, just focused and practically burning a hole in his puzzle.

"The answer's _someday."_

"What?"

"Twenty-three down," I said, getting to my feet, but not before giving him a small peck to the cheek on my way up. _"An unspecified point in the future. _The answer's _someday." _

Someday...someday, maybe things would go our way.

**~. Justin .~**

Sometimes—often—I hated the contradictions in my life. I hated that I always wanted what I couldn't have, or wouldn't allow myself, either consciously or subconsciously.

I wanted gratification. I wanted safety. I wanted more. I wanted to hold off. I wanted to go out, be with Brian, hang out with my friends, take my old life back. But then I'd ache for the comfort and safety of the loft, I'd have a flash of memory that would snatch it all away, I'd freak out in crowds with my friends, and I'd end up with nothing more than I'd started out with. It was like I was always wanting what simultaneously scared me to death.

Like kissing Brian on the couch the day before. That had been...well, fucking amazing, as it always was with him. I'd just been kissing him and been so fucking overwhelmed by him, and I'd been thinking about how it had felt so good to be naked with him last Sunday, and I'd just...acted impulsively. Blurted it out.

_I want to. _

And yeah, I really, _really_ fucking had.

I didn't care if it was reckless or stupid or impulsive or that it might have ended in complete disaster. I'd wanted it, and for once since that damn party I didn't want to think twice about going for it. I hadn't wanted to second-guess myself, or my feelings, or wonder if I was making the right decision. I'd just wanted to do it, make it happen, let myself have that again. I hadn't planned on actually having sex—until we got my HIV test results back, that was off the table anyway. But I'd wanted _something. _

And I'd been fucking terrified. I'd wanted it more than anything, wanted to really _be _with him, and it had scared me to the core. And then I'd caught sight of that drawing, and I'd had those images in my head, and I just...there was no way I could do anything after that. The worst part was that I'd been almost grateful...grateful that I could back out without feeling like I'd cheated myself of something. And then I'd felt ashamed, because I'd promised Brian I would tell him if I needed to stop, and part of me really _had _wanted to stop—or at least was telling me that it was the wiser choice—and I hadn't said a word. Just asked for what I wanted, ignoring reason, as well as the warnings of both Brian and that little voice in the back of my head.

Why...fucking _why _did what I wanted most have to be what I feared more than almost anything?

Some things were easier to handle being afraid of than others. I mean, some things I could just not subject myself to, if I was scared of them. Like, when I was a little kid, I could turn my nightlight on if I was scared of the dark. These days, I could pretty much avoid extensive interaction with baseball bats, I could elude Chris Hobbes and Gary Sapperstein, the demons that haunted me still. But then there were reminders like my gimp hand or the possibility of sex someday, and those were things I couldn't avoid, could never forget. Why was it that the things I needed or wanted the most were the things that brought me the most pain?

Irony. It was a fucking scream, wasn't it? Sometimes I just wondered if that type of thing was just life's idea of a joke. Maybe that was why it had molded me into some type of walking contradiction.

Of course, Brian had his contradictions, too. Only I liked his. Sometimes sharp words, softened with a warm tone and affection in his eyes. Claims that no longer held any meaning...claims he'd contradicted with not only his words, but his actions. His claims that he didn't do love, that it was all about sex...of course, he'd refuted that himself on more than one occasion, even more so by just being who I needed him to be than with the words themselves. He'd encouraged me, he'd taken care of me, helped me, stood by me,_ loved _me. Even before this whole fucking mess had happened, he'd shown me that. So many things about Brian puzzled me still, but slowly, I was beginning to work them out.

One thing about Brian that I just could not fucking wrap my mind around, however, was his whole attitude regarding HIV. Or, more specifically, his attitude regarding one potentially HIV-positive person in particular, whom he was very interested in fucking again someday. Still.

He'd refused that one time I'd asked him to fuck me raw. He'd given me the whole lecture on safe sex, making me promise that I'd never be so stupid as to have sex without a condom in the heat of the moment. Right from the start, he'd always been so careful that it sometimes frustrated me. There'd been times I'd literally been begging him to fuck me, nearly incoherent with need and desire, and he'd still stopped long enough to get the fucking condom on. He was always careful, always prepared, always so fucking obsessive about safe sex. Because of that risk. That danger.

And then he found out his partner may have HIV, and...well, nothing had changed. He still wanted to fuck me.

I knew I should be touched. I knew this should fucking scream to me that Brian loved me, if he was willing to risk his health and safety to be with me like that. But for once I wished he'd just...fuck, I didn't even know. Not care, maybe?

I mean, if he'd yelled at me, told me I was disgusting and stupid and irresponsible for letting myself get put at risk that way? Yeah, it probably would have broken me into a million tiny pieces of pain.

But right then, I was pretty sure I'd prefer it.

At least then, he'd be safe.

I was slicing carrots at the counter, preparing them for the pot roast I planned to make for dinner. Brian was "helping" me...and by helping I mean he was standing next to me at the counter, flipping aimlessly through a pricey furniture catalog, and occasionally handing me random cooking utensils as I worked.

"What do you think of this table?" he asked. For the third time, I refrained from an eye-roll and glanced over at the random piece of furniture that had caught his fancy. Normally, I liked looking through his catalogs with him—he got them delivered regularly, and they were always full of some of the coolest stuff. But when he waltzed over and offered to help me with dinner, then sat there flipping through magazines instead of doing anything remotely useful—well, it was a bit exasperating. But then, to know Brian was to find him maddeningly exasperating at times. It was unavoidable, really.

"It's great," I said, with the same air men used to answer when their wives asked for their opinions on their outfits. I resisted adding a casual 'honey' in there, just to check to see if he was even really listening.

"We should get a new table," he said, still staring contemplatively down at the catalog page. "Or maybe a sofa. What do you think?"

"What for?" New furniture? We pretty much had all the furniture we needed, didn't we? Or so I thought.

He shrugged. "For fun," he said. I contemplated the fact that Brian Kinney was the only person I knew who shopped for ridiculously expensive foreign furniture as a recreational activity. "What do you think of this chair?"

"Shit!" I hissed suddenly, dropping the knife to the counter with a clatter.

"Okay, so you're not a big fan of Mies van der Rohe," he shrugged, flipping the page.

"Not that!" I said, giving into the urge to roll my eyes, cursing as I gripped my own finger tightly with my other hand. "I fucking cut myself."

The situation apparently not sinking in, he glanced over, swearing loudly when he saw the blood running down my hand and it finally hit home for him. Well, "running" was probably an overstatement. Trickling, more like. My finger throbbed with pain, though, and suddenly, Brian was pressing a towel over my hand, doing his best to stop the blood flow.

"Don't!" I chastised him, tugging my wrist from his grip as he attempted to get a better look at it.

"Just let me help—"

"Just get back!" I ordered, cradling my hand against my chest, panic coursing through me at the thought of him anywhere near my blood. "Don't touch it."

"I won't," he promised, reaching out to grab my wrist again, apparently under the impression that I was trying to save myself the pain of having him poking and prodding at it.

"I said _leave it!" _I cried shrilly, actually backing away from him, the towel still wrapped tightly around my finger. "You can't touch my blood, Brian. We don't know if—" If it was safe. If I had this disease inside me. If I could hurt him.

I knew the exact moment it registered. The look in his eyes—it said everything. They bore into me, deep orbs of hazel, and he nodded with this expression on his face that suggested he'd had suspicions that had just been confirmed. He brushed past me, his shoulder bumping mine, and I could practically feel the chill radiating from him. For a moment I thought he'd stormed off, but then he was back, medicine and a bandage in hand.

"Here," he said, laying them on the counter for me. "You should probably clean it first, though." I took care of the cut while he picked up the offending knife, washed it, and put it in the dishwasher for me. The cut didn't appear too deep—deep enough to bleed, and certainly enough to hurt, but it would heal all right.

"I'll finish up," Brian promised when I was done, grabbing a new knife from the drawer and turning toward my abandoned carrots. My skin prickled at the unmistakable iciness in his voice. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Then, I realized...shit. I'd brought it up, hadn't I? The thing that had been making him so tense and worried all week...my final results for my HIV testing. With his words, he reassured me, told me everything he thought I wanted to hear. That it would be fine, that I most likely had nothing to worry about. With his voice, and his actions, however, he conveyed just how petrified he really was.

With only a few days left before we could expect to receive the call, I was pretty certain I had my emotions under control concerning my results, telling myself that it wasn't worth worrying over until we knew for sure. Sometimes, I thought this attitude was only because the alternative—seriously considering being HIV positive—was just too fucking much to deal with. I couldn't handle it, and I didn't want to. Sometimes, the fear would strike me, fresh and raw and terrifying, but then I'd shake it off and distract myself, telling myself not to worry, not to break down...not yet.

I had—and so, most likely, had Brian—been counting down the days until the time I could expect call. Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Chances were, it would be somewhere within that three-day time frame.

In some ways, it was just like every other time I'd gotten tested. The waiting. The fear. I only hoped that I'd get the chance to feel the knee-buckling relief I had all the other times, too.

In other ways, though, it was all so fucking different from that first time. I'd been scared then, too, but back then I'd just felt this helplessness...this feeling that nothing hopeful or good in life could or would ever happen again. I'd almost accepted that I'd had it before I'd even taken the tests.

Now, a few of my priorities had shifted. I wasn't feeling so self-destructive...my health was worth more to me, now, than it had been back then. I'd been scared before, but I'd also had this feeling that everything in my entire life was spiraling out of control, taunting me cruelly as I fell headfirst into this black hole of misery. But I had a pretty good grip on my own life, these days. The fear wasn't of falling further into a hole I could never crawl out of—it was a fear of losing the ground I had gained.

Brian and I ate dinner with a minimal amount of talking that night. I barely felt the continued gentle throb of my finger, and was just grateful it wasn't my drawing hand. Besides, it hurt far less than the chill I could feel emanating from Brian's side of the table as we ate.

Afterward, he helped me clean up, and without so much as another word to me, departed to take a shower. He hardly spoke to me the whole night. In fact, it wasn't until I was climbing into bed that he finally reminded me that he had the power of speech at his disposal.

"So is this what it's going to be like?" he asked quietly. He'd had his back to me, but rolled over so that his voice wasn't so muffled. I looked over at him, a grim expression on his face, his lips pressed together in a solemn line, and wondered what he was talking about.

"Is it going to be like what?" I asked.

"You—always acting like you're some kind of disease."

I felt something cold inside me clench at his tone. Or maybe his words. Perhaps it was both. "We don't know, Brian...I could have it. I know you don't want to think about it, but—"

"And what if you are?" he demanded. "Is that it? You're never going to let me touch you again?"

I stared at him, unable to believe he was making such an issue out of this. This, from the man who'd refused to fuck me without a condom, who'd made me swear never to do something so dangerous and stupid? "Brian, blood is fucking dangerous anyway—it would be dangerous for _me_ to have contact with _your _blood. It's just safety 101."

"I don't have any cuts on my hands," he pointed out, holding one up as if in demonstration. "No way for your blood to get in me even if I did touch it."

"It's just a safety precaution, Brian," I said. "You know there are risks. It'd be like...like fucking bareback. You know blood is dangerous."

"Spare me the lecture, Justin," he rolled his eyes. "I attended health class, too, you know. And this isn't about the goddamn blood...this is about...." He seemed to struggle with his words for a moment, then let it all out in one quick breath. "What the hell is it going to mean if you're positive?"

"What are you talking about?" For once, it seemed our positions were reversed. I had absolutely no idea what was going on in his head. He had fear and anger and fuck knew what going on over on his end that, frankly, puzzled me.

He let out a sigh of aggravation. "I'm talking about—if...if you _are _positive, and assuming things were...better...what is that going to mean? If this is how you react before we even know—and when I hand you a goddamn towel for a fucking cut a half inch wide—what the hell does that mean for...as far as sex goes? Or have you gone a made a decision all on your own, in the name of my best interest?"

I blinked in surprise; it wasn't often that Brian initiated the topic of our lack of a sex life. I let his questions wash over me, his fears, his concerns. Very valid ones, I might add. For the first time, I felt like maybe he did understand about the HIV thing. Maybe he did get it, after all, because for once, he wasn't promising me that we would deal with it, that it would all be okay.

"I don't know," I admitted reluctantly.

"It's not just your decision, you know," he said quietly. "I'm a big boy—I know the risks. I'm willing to take them."

"Well—I don't know if I am," I said crisply. "And no, it's not your decision. It's my body, Brian. And I thought you told me not to worry about sex? You told me you'd never pressure."

"I'm not," he said firmly, at once. "I told you, we'll wait as long as you need to, and I meant it. This isn't about that."

"Then what is it about?"

"It's about you pushing me away if that fucking phone call doesn't go the way we want," he said, the frostiness in his voice unmistakable, but that wasn't what struck me about that sentence.

Brian Kinney was lecturing _me—_

About pushing _him_ away?

I very nearly laughed out loud at that.

"You mean, the way that you would do to me?" I asked calmly instead. Hell, the way he'd _done _to me. What exactly did he call that whole thing after the bashing? Yes, it had been my mother's idea, but he had gone along with it. He had blamed himself, and believed he was doing the best thing for me by keeping me at arm's length.

His face hardened, and I knew he'd realized I'd made a valid point, and hated it.

"I wouldn't do that," came his stiff reply.

"Come off it, Brian," I said irritably. Did he honestly think I'd believe that? Did he really think I didn't know the Kinney Operating Manuel cover to cover by now? "If things were the other way around, and you were positive, you'd shove me off a fucking cliff before I knew what was happening. And you'd do it in the fucked up name of_ protecting me...."_

"Oh, and your way's not fucked up?" he snorted. "Enlightening, Sunshine."

"You know what, just fuck off, Brian," I said heatedly. "Are you telling me you'd give me a fucking choice if it were the other way around?"

"Yes," he said, though his tone couldn't be less convincing. I snorted in disbelief. "I would," he insisted, more forcefully now. "I would trust the fact that you're an adult, who can make his own adult decisions. Don't I get the same respect?"

"It's not _about _fucking _respect," _I said. "It's about me not knowing if I could take that risk with your _life, _Brian. Do you know how much it would kill me if something ever happened? I'd have to deal with that for the rest of my life, don't you get that?"

"It wouldn't be your fault," he said, his voice as cool as mine was hot.

"Well, it would sure as hell feel like it. If I knew I gave you a disease like that, Brian...don't you get how that would make me fucking feel?"

He was silent for a long moment. "I get that it's a fucking choice, Justin."

"Yeah," I agreed. "My choice. If I had it, it would be in _me..._and it would be me feeling guilty if something happened, me feeling responsible, me _knowing, _every day, that you were suffering because of a decision _I _made to risk your life."

And I wouldn't—_couldn't—_do to him what they'd done to me. I couldn't put him at risk like that. Maybe it wasn't the same thing—_he'd_ always have the choice—but how could I live with myself if something ever happened to him? Fuck, maybe he was right. Maybe I already had made this decision on my own. Shit.

"But it is _my_ life," he said sharply. "Don't I get a choice in whether I risk it or not?" I pressed my lips together, shaking my head in disbelief. "Okay, then let's take your scenario here for a minute," he continued when I didn't answer. "If things were the other way around...would you want to make the choice for yourself, or would you want me to make it for both of us?"

Fuck.

What was I even supposed to say to that? If Brian were HIV positive, would that keep me from wanting to be with him? Assuming, of course, that _It _wasn't a factor? Really, it wasn't even a question.

"What do you want me to say, Brian?" I asked weakly. "Fine, I'm a hypocrite, all right? I'd still want to be with you, no matter what. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"I want to hear that you'd give me the same privilege."

"I..." He waited, eyebrows raised expectantly. I sighed. "I can't, Brian. I don't know if—I just...don't know, okay? I _can't _know right now, I just...can't." Fuck. _Was_ he right? Did he have a right to choose whether he risked his life with me or not? But...I mean, it was my body, wasn't it? It would be my responsibility, my fault if something happened to him. He wouldn't have to deal with that aspect of it... it would be all on my shoulders.

Whatever happened, though, I knew one thing for sure. This time—no matter what Brian said about his life and his choices—this time, I had a choice, too.

We laid there for a while in mutually frustrated silence, neither of us so much as looking at the other. Resentment and anger pulsed through me, not at him, but at _Them. _At fucking Gary and his fucking friends for doing this to me, to my relationship. What fucking _right _did they have to leave us with the possibility of this huge, life-altering thing?

I'd done some research on the web a few days ago. None of it had really made me feel any better...not that I'd expected it to. There were statistics, information about medication, safe sex lectures, symptom lists. The usual. I didn't know what I'd expected—reassurance, maybe? Was that even possible at this point? Would anything other than that phone call be enough to comfort me now?

I doubted anything else would be enough for Brian. On one hand, he was acting like it wouldn't change a thing. He went on about using condoms and being safe and all the rest of it, and yet...he was scared. I could tell he was scared. But if he wasn't worrying primarily over the problem of sex...I mean, in that he would be essentially risking his health, and possibly his life, every time he was with me...then it was all about me and my health, which somehow managed to make me want to hug him and yell at him all at the same time. He could worry about my safety all he wanted, but I wasn't supposed to be concerned about his? Well, fuck that.

I let out a deep breath, doing my best to shake these unpleasant thoughts from my mind. All they ever did was chase each other round and round with no answers in sight, and right now, I had better things to concentrate on than uncomfortable what-if scenarios. Because ultimately, no matter how much we obsessed over these results, we'd have them when we had them, and not a moment sooner. And until then, we were both just powerless.

"Brian, are you awake?" I whispered.

"No, I'm in the middle of a highly realistic dream," came the sarcastic retort.

I rolled my eyes, but turned over on my side to look at him. "Look...this is stupid...fighting about this. We don't even know if I'm—we don't even know if this is something we're going to have to deal with yet."

He stared at me. "Deal with?" he repeated.

Unease prodded uncomfortably at the edges of my mind, but I nodded. "Yeah...yeah, I mean...whatever happens, we'll deal with it, right? That's what you said," I reminded him quietly.

"I did," he murmured, his gaze softening.

"And neither of us are going anywhere." His own words, returned to him with a slightly different twist to their meaning, now...my own promise to try and deal, to not push him away. Just as he'd promised me. "Right?"

His lips curved upward into the softest of smiles. "Right." I reached across the bed towards him, and his hand met mine in the middle, our fingers curling together.

I still didn't know if I could take a risk like that with Brian's life, and I knew him well enough to know that he hadn't given up on his own viewpoint, either. But whatever we ended up having to deal with...neither of us would ever be alone in it all. That was some comfort. I rolled a little closer, into the inviting warmth of his body, his boxers soft against the skin that my own weren't covering.

"I just...want you safe," I said softly. "I want you around for a long, long time, Brian." I remembered when he'd said that to me, that day I'd asked him to fuck me bareback. At the time, the words had barely pushed through the fog of irritation surrounding my brain. It wasn't until later that they'd echoed back at me, made my stomach do little flips inside as I'd realized what they'd meant. They just sort of saddened me to think of, now; he'd done nothing but protect me that day, nothing but look out for me. And now, it seemed his efforts had been in vain; his choice to wear a condom that day had done nothing, in the long run, to keep me from that risk.

He didn't reply, but I saw his lips quirk up at the corners in recognition, the arm he had around me pulling me just a little closer. Yes, things were fucked up right now. Yes, we were both fighting the fear inside us, the anger, the powerlessness...fuck, we were fighting each other, in a way. But that didn't mean we had to give up everything.

"I love you," I told him; his eyes had lost their cool hardness as they bored into mine. His answer was a kiss...an emotional outpouring of fear and anguish and uncertainty over the future, a promise to stand by me and love me and protect me, and I vowed the same as I kissed him back.

We were on our sides, pressed close...so close, in fact, that I could feel his half-hard dick through his boxers with ease as our kisses deepened, our hands beginning to stray. As though to remind me what my body was capable of feeling, memories of Sunday morning flashed through my head. A nervous sort of sensation fluttered through my stomach as I came to a decision.

"Wait...wait," I stopped him as he began to roll over me, covering my body with his own. He backed off immediately, and too late, I caught the flash of fear in his eyes.

"I'm okay," I assured him. "Just...." I let my voice trail off, deciding to show rather than tell, smiling in what I hoped was a reassuring sort of way and slowly beginning to slide off my boxer shorts, tossing them over onto my vacated side of the bed. His eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead, but he couldn't stop his eyes from drinking me in.

"Come on," I said, softly, to hide the waver of uncertainty still in my voice. "Yours, too."

He hesitated for a moment, clearly questioning my judgment. We'd made out a few times since the previous Sunday, sometimes in nothing but our underwear, but we hadn't done it again naked. It was those fucking contradictory feelings again—pulling me into him, then pushing him away, like I was some sort of weird magnet that couldn't decide between the north and south poles—constantly attracting, only to repel.

But this...this was good. Exciting and hot and I fucking loved the way it felt to be naked with him. I loved how it overcame those churning, nervous feelings in my stomach, and put this fluttering, happy one there instead. I loved the way every last trace of that old filthy feeling was gone from beneath my skin, and I could only feel the exhilarating, shivery sensations that Brian left.

To my satisfaction, he seemed to decide that my judgment could, indeed, be trusted, because a moment later his boxers were off, allowing me just a few seconds to appreciate the sight of him before his lips were covering mine, curving into a smile.

I pulled him to me, over me, on top of me as I fell back against the pillows. His kisses, his caresses, his tongue in my mouth, his hand in my hair...they all felt like promises, and I did my best to return them. Promises that, even if the worst came to be, we wouldn't lose it all.

He wouldn't be losing me this time, and I wouldn't be losing him. And even if I tried to push, tried to destroy this before I ended up destroying him...I knew he'd never let me go.

**~. Brian .~**

Justin, it seemed, was trying to make a career out of shocking me.

He'd been kissing me...nothing unusual about it except for the argument we'd had minutes before. Making out in our boxers was becoming an increasingly common thing. But then he was sliding off his shorts and telling me to do the same, and we were kissing and naked and curled around each other under the duvet. It had been amazing, the way it felt so innocent, and yet felt like...well, like sex. Before Justin, I'd never imagined something like that even existed. But in between his legs, covering his body with my own, feeling his cock pressing against me, so familiar, just lying on top of him like that...I could almost pretend that this was the lead-in, and not the main event. That I was about to push inside him, surround myself by him, fucking _lose _myself in him.

Somehow, I always managed to lose myself in Justin.

He was sleeping now, his back to me. It felt kind of strange, after all this time sleeping clad in boxers, to lie here next to him wearing nothing at all. Of course, I used to sleep naked all the time; it was as a courtesy to him that I'd started wearing clothes to bed. And tonight, it had been his call that had allowed me to shed that thin layer of clothing

His breathing was even and deep, his body relaxed against mine, his fingers still curled loosely around my own, even in his dreams. I trailed the fingers of my free hand along his side, his skin smooth to the touch, and kissed the back of his neck.

I knew he'd been right earlier. About the blood thing, that was. Shit like that was dangerous, potentially positive status or not. But it had been a fairly small trickle—it wasn't like he'd been gushing with the stuff—and what was the risk of handing him a fucking towel and examining it with uncut hands that wouldn't even come into contact with the blood itself?

Or maybe I was just being careless...blood was always dangerous unless proven otherwise, wasn't it? But since when did Mr. Please-Fuck-Me-Without-A-Condom turn into a public service announcement about risks with HIV? And since when did _I—_always so fucking careful about that kind of thing—start taking these types of chances?

Of course, I knew the answer to that one. And I knew why, too. Because it was him, and I could never be afraid of _him, _no matter what kind of fucked up logic was employed there.

I mean, if Justin _was _positive? Yeah, things were going to fucking change. And that scared me.

But sex? Being afraid of how what was inside him would physically affect _me? _That was a bit lower on my list of things to worry about. I meant what I'd told him about neither of us leaving, and about being safe whenever the matter of sex came up again for real. We'd always used condoms, hadn't we? Why would anything change in that respect?

But the way he was talking, it changed everything. He was going around thinking of himself like some kind of bomb on a timer with this damn HIV test, and I was pretty sure I'd gotten a taste of the explosion. He just wasn't convinced that condoms would be enough. But they were for me...why shouldn't they be for him? The way I saw it, I was the one who'd be put at risk, and therefore it was my risk to take. He, however, didn't see it quite the same way.

Honestly, I wasn't sure I meant what I'd told him, about letting him make his own informed choices if the positions were reversed. Deep in my gut, I knew he was right—I'd probably do exactly what he was preparing himself to do now, in the name of keeping him safe. Yes, that basically made me a lying, pathetic hypocrite. But I'd rather be that than be the guy that gave his boyfriend HIV...infected the person he cared about more than any other with some disease from hell.

So it wasn't as though I didn't know where he was coming from...how could I not, feeling the way I did? But it _was _partly my choice, all the same, wasn't it? Not sex in general...he was right in that respect, it _was _his body...but didn't I get to have a say in whether or not I took the risk of being with him when his mind was willing and able again? It was like I'd told him...I'd never pressure. The ball was completely in his court on that one. When it was about him healing—his mind, his well-being after going through something so horrific I could barely imagine it, even after hearing so many of the appalling details—that was one thing.

But this? Not having sex because he was afraid of the health risk? A health risk I'd assured him I was willing to take?

That was what wasn't fair. To either of us. It wasn't fair for us to lose this thing, this amazing thing, because of the hazard it could potentially pose. For his mental health, yes, we could wait. But not if he was using his medical state as a reason to keep himself from something he genuinely wanted so badly...something we both wanted. I mean, what was he going to do?Never let himself have sex again, no matter how much he wanted it, because he was afraid a condom might possibly break? Because any post-exposure medicine might not work? He was going to put himself through that—the torture he'd been living with for weeks...months...times a hundred, for the rest of his life? Fuck, it wasn't fair. It couldn't be more unfair. I'd gladly have it be me instead—at least then, even if I couldn't allow myself to be with him, he wouldn't have to punish himself forever. At least he'd be safe. He could have that piece of himself. He could fucking be _happy _with his life—free—fuck knew he deserved it.

Maybe, though—maybe, we were both just going to have to find a way to live our lives without it. Fuck, I didn't want to go down that road. I didn't want to feel like hope itself had been extinguished. I didn't want to consider that possibility at all.

I knew we _could _do it_—_we'd done it this long, and if things really did take a turn for the worst, what choice would we have? It would just be harder, his mind never allowing him to have that piece of himself, first for one reason, then for this one. Justin might never let himself have sex again. That was just a possibility...a potential reality. No getting around it. Christ.

And I would just—and my chest ached at the idea—I would just never get to know that again. I would never get to see his face when I pushed inside him, or be able to swallow him whole and suck him dry. I would never get to kiss him as he came, and I'd never get to feel that perfection I felt with him—like everything in my life was the way it was supposed to be. Like everything was just right in the world, as long as I could stay inside him.

I'd always thought that if you didn't hope, you didn't fall so hard when those hopes came crashing down.

I figured I'd probably nailed that one on the head.

It was times like these that I wondered, despite what I told him...hell, despite what I believed myself most of the time...if maybe that part of our lives really was broken beyond repair. Maybe they really had stolen it from us. Maybe we were just going to have to live without it, and be one of those couples that never had sex. After six months, which, let's face it, used to be practically an eternity to me...if six months had done nothing to diminish how I felt about him, sex didn't seem to be a particularly necessary part of what kept me caring so much. It wasn't like we didn't have that passion, that heat between us, because we did. We just...couldn't do anything about it. Maybe it would just always keep building or something? Maybe we'd just build up all this heat and tension for each other over time, and it would bind us together even stronger or something. Fuck if I knew how these things worked. I still didn't understand relationships, and I was fucking in one.

The bottom line was, I'd told him over and over that it wouldn't matter if he was HIV positive—that it wouldn't change anything. But that was a lie.

It would change everything.

Because if he was...if he had it...everything would be different. It would be like being thrown right back to where we were, in that state of constant fear. Hell, sex wouldn't even be our biggest issue anymore. That one phone call had the power to give us everything, or take it all away. Our security, our states of mind, his health, his slowly redeveloping interest in sex...all of it.

I didn't know how Michael and the Professor did it. I mean, with them, the problem had been that Michael hadn't known if he could do it. Michael was the one not knowing if he could handle the possibility of watching Ben's health deteriorate in front of his eyes, the one not knowing if he could put his own life at risk.

But where did that leave me, if Justin was the one refusing to let us go through with it?

Thinking about Michael and Ben like that...a positive/negative couple...fuck, it made me feel sick. That could be us, me and Justin, in a matter of days. We could be a positive/negative couple. We could fucking_ be_ those people. And we had no idea how to make it work between us.

Things were different with us than with them, though. Fuck, I couldn't even believe I was thinking shit like this, but...well, Michael and Ben had liked each other well enough by the point that they'd slept together, but they weren't...they weren't _partners. _Not yet. Justin and I...well, we were pretty much already there, weren't we? Michael hadn't known at first if he could risk his life for a guy he liked. A lot. But I _did _know that, however much it honestly did scare me on some level, I could risk mine for a guy I more than liked. Okay, fine...a guy I fucking felt that damn lesbionic L-word for.

And yeah, I _was _scared. I was scared of what might be in him and what that might mean. I was scared that I'd been forced out that night six months ago, and I was scared I might never be let back in. It made my heart beat a little faster with fear to think of coming so close myself, risking so much to be with him—and there really was no denying that I _would_ be risking a hell of a lot, however you looked at it—but as I'd told him before, we'd have condoms, play as safe as humanely possible.

And if it was a choice between being with him and taking a chance, or staying away and staying safe, there was no question.

He won, every time.

And if something went wrong?

Well, if something went wrong...if it turned out Justin was sick, if it ended up taking over both our lives...we'd do exactly what Debbie had always said she'd done upon finding out that Vic was positive.

First, we'd die.

Then, we'd deal with it.

That was, if he _let _me deal with it.

Fuck. This was all just so wrong for us to have to deal with at all, so twisted that those pieces of shit had put this in our lives. We'd made it through so much—the emotional trauma, the nightmares, the therapy, the goddamn suicide attempt—so fucking much. But there would be no coming back from HIV. We'd just have to live with it, and cope with it, as best we could. And it didn't do any good to try to push these concerns from my mind until we knew for sure. Telling myself that it was stupid to worry over something that wasn't even an absolute did nothing for the perpetual fear I seemed to carry around inside me, nor did it keep the endless cycle of _what-ifs _from circling through my head.

Because one way or another, our futures were coming. And that potential future...the one we feared, the one we dreaded to our very cores...it was a very real possibility.

One thing was for damn sure, though. I could not—_was _not—fucking losing him to that fucking disease. He could push, he could fight, he could do whatever the hell he wanted. And if he took sex off the table permanently...so fucking be it. There were other ways for us to get off, safer ways. And maybe eventually he'd realize that it didn't have to be a death sentence. But he was not—fucking _not—_pushing me away, after fucking everything we'd gone through, in the name of protecting me, or because he didn't want me to have to take care of him, or to spare me the goddamn pain, or anything of the sort.

As though sensing the heat rolling off me from my inner tirade, he mumbled something in his sleep that almost sounded like my name, and I realized with a slight jolt that we'd both forgotten his sleeping pill that night.

He looked content, though, as I propped myself on my elbow to see his face...long eyelashes against pale cheeks, perfect pink lips slightly parted...so fucking beautiful. I held him against me all night long, staying awake as long as I could, pressing my cock ever so gently against the crack of his ass and marveling at the way we just fucking fit together—all of me and all of him.

Finally, I allowed my eyes to close, reveling in the warmth of his body, deciding that he would be alright, even without me to watch over him all night. I breathed a sigh into his hair, my embrace tightening around him, holding him to me, where he belonged.

No, I was not fucking losing this. Ever.

~.~

Nearly every night that week, I'd gone to sleep lying next to him, something remarkably like fear hovering over us. And every day, I'd wake up with a heaviness weighing on my chest. And then I'd think about the day I was facing, that it might be _The Day..._that this time tomorrow, peace and contentment could be a thing of the past. It could be the day we found out...the day we got the call. I'd never cared how improbable it was. Never cared that we most likely wouldn't hear from the clinic until the weekend. It hadn't mattered. There was no explaining that to the illogical little part of my brain that had been paralyzed with fear for the last six months. You couldn't, I realized, reason with the unreasonable, even inside your own head.

Saturday was the first day in a week I woke up feeling anything remotely like tranquility. Still weighed down by the heaviness of anxiety, but then I saw him on the opposite side of the bed, and couldn't hold back a smile.

I wasn't even touching him; sometime during the night, he'd rolled away from me, back over to his own side of the bed. His legs were tangled in the covers, his arm draped over his pillow, his bare ass looking quite delectable in the light of the early morning.

I desperately wanted to touch him...run my fingers through his hair, down his back, over his ass. I wanted to drag my tongue down his spine, kiss the little upward curve at the bottom of it, and bury my face between his cheeks, rim him until he was begging to feel me inside. I'd had my cock ache for release, I'd even had my ass desperate to be fucked—particularly since a certain blond figured out that all it took to get me to roll over for him was his tongue or a finger up my ass most of the time. Of course, I hadn't told him that he was the only one it was ever that simple for; I'd just let him think he'd discovered some dirty little secret about Brian Kinney.

The point was, I'd felt lust before. I'd been painfully hard, needing nothing more than to come. I'd been desperate, holding onto the edge of everything, that it took all I had not to plead and whimper and beg.

But it was nothing to the ache in my chest, just watching Justin sleep that morning.

"Twat," I whispered affectionately, the endearment falling on deaf ears as I reached out to brush a few stray locks back from his face. My fingers curled lightly around the base of his neck, buried in tangled blond, and stayed there.

At some point, I must have fallen back asleep, because the next time I opened my eyes, Justin was gone, though I couldn't remember feeling him get up. After a little while, I forced myself up from the comfort and warmth of the bed and went to find him.

He was sitting on the couch, sketching. One glance at it told me that it was one of his "Rage" drawings...probably an addition to his latest story. This one involved the "Life-Sapper," as I'd learned he was called, on a mission to infect JT with a deadly virus. As if that wasn't horrible enough in itself, I was pretty sure I didn't want to know how that virus was spread in his world. His villain's name implied enough.

Sometimes, after drawing shit like that for hours on end, Justin would have a sudden need for a shower. Even if he'd already taken one, if he'd immersed himself in his work and that work had been of a particularly depressing or disturbing nature, he'd go and take another in the middle of the day. Today was one of those days.

"Don't forget, we have to be at Debbie's in half an hour," I reminded him, strolling into the bathroom as he climbed out of the shower. He joined me in front of the mirror, where I was running a comb through my already perfect hair and trying not to stare too overtly at my wet, dripping, dark-red-towel clad boyfriend.

"You okay?" I asked, taking in the rim of red around his eyes. He'd been crying over those drawings, I could tell, even though he hadn't let me see.

"Not really," he admitted.

"Yeah," I said quietly, eyes fixed on the faucet, my hand rubbing tension from the back of my own neck. "I know the feeling."

A beat of silence. "I thought today might be...you know, _it. _I mean, it's been a week."

As if I didn't realize. "There's always tomorrow," I pointed out. "And next week..." I let my voice trail off, the implication settling in. Next week...definitely by next week. There was no getting around it, no matter how hard we tried; these, right here, were our fucking lives. This was real...this was _happening...._

He nodded, but didn't look all that comforted, his face grim and set. "I'm..." he swallowed, looking as though the words tumbling from his lips were doing so only reluctantly. "I'm fucking scared, Brian," he admitted.

His voice was composed, collected, barely betraying the sheer terror I knew to be beneath his words. Oddly, he'd seemed far calmer about this last round of tests than any other, which I wasn't exactly sure how to handle. Wasn't I supposed to be the one reassuring him? Not that I thought it was doing much good; I knew he could see through my false confidence like water. But still, it threw me off a little. It was the exact opposite of what I'd expected.

"Yeah...me too." Nothing but the truth. He'd see it anyway, even if I didn't say it.

His fingers were clenched around the edge of the sink, his knuckles white. The index finger of his left hand sported a somewhat deep, angry looking red gash.

"You should put something on that," I said, nodding at his injury.

He let out a deep breath. "Help me?" he asked, his eyes fixed on mine in the mirror, asking for so much more than his words ever could. He could bandage his own cut any day...this was about something more. If I were a lesbian, I'd say this was his way of letting me in, as much as he could right now. Apologizing, maybe, trying to repair the damage from last night. If I were a lesbian, of course. Though I had to admit, no one had ever made me feel the need to check for the presence of my own dick more than Justin Taylor.

"Yeah," I agreed, and went to fetch some on-the-spot pain medicine and a band-aid. He stood in front of me by the sink, my arms reaching around him, his injured hand in mine as I carefully doctored his cut.

When I was finished, I continued just to stand there with him, holding him and staring at our entwined reflections, my mind flitting from one thing to another, fear and hope and everything in between.

We were pretty fucking beautiful together, I realized...framed by the mirror—solemn expressions aside. Blond clashing against brunette, pale skin against bronze, blue against hazel. Contradictions. And yet...we were perfect. Together, we were perfect. I only hoped those differences wouldn't extend to HIV status.

He didn't protest when I laid a gentle kiss against his neck. Instead, his breath caught, and he leaned his head back against my shoulder, leaving me room to kiss and lick and nibble and sooth as I pleased. I bumped my nose against his cheek, letting my lips trail over his skin, eventually finding his neck and sucking a pale pink mark there, making him go nearly limp against me. He let me hold him to my chest, his hands coming up behind him to grasp at my hair and the back of my neck, pulling me down to his lips.

I caught his eyes fluttering closed in the mirror as I worshiped his skin, ran my hands over him, his chest, his stomach...he smelled fresh and clean after his shower, like shampoo and soap with a hint of something beneath that was all Justin. Before long, there was a noticeable tent in the front of his towel, and I was sure he could feel my own erection pressing into his lower back. He pushed back against me, and let out something between a sigh and a moan.

"Brian..." he whispered. "Brian...stop."

The word burned like fire through my senses, dread and fear and guilt rushing through my veins along with it, and I hastily let him go, let him lean against the sink and breathe.

"We're...we're gonna be late to Debbie's," he said, his breathing still erratic, looking about five seconds from coming and simultaneously falling to pieces. "We just...we're gonna be late."

I felt the dark filth of guilt settle into my skin as he swept from the room, and waited until I was sure he was dressed before coming to join him. He didn't seem angry or upset in the least, but I knew his excuse of being late to Debbie's was about as true as ninety percent of the gossip you heard around the Liberty Diner. But...we'd barely been doing anything, really. And he hadn't tensed up, or showed any signs of wanting to stop just beforehand, which led me to the conclusion that maybe the problem wasn't that he hadn't wanted it.

Maybe the problem was that he'd wanted it _too _much. Though which of what seemed like a dozen reasons had been the dilemma behind this, I couldn't be sure. Was it his usual fears and doubts plaguing his mind? Or was it something more? That fucking HIV-bomb-on-a-timer thing again?

Unsurprisingly, neither exactly filled me with joy.

Dinner at Deb's was a tense affair for us that night. Neither of us spoke much, to each other nor anyone else. Twice, Michael asked me what was wrong, and twice, I shrugged him off. The third time he tried to pull me aside, more than likely to ask after my mental state once again, I saw Ben pull him into a corner and whisper something, their heads bent together. Michael's eyes grew wide with what seemed to be understanding, I pretended not to see the look of sympathy he cast in my direction. I'd deduced enough about Justin and Ben's conversation last week to guess that the Professor had just filled him in on the reason behind mine and Justin's withdrawn solitude tonight, and figured I could expect a call from my best friend later on.

This mutual state of tension persisted even after we were back at the loft, well over an hour earlier than we usually would have been. Neither of us had felt much like company tonight. We shed our coats and shoes without a word to each other, and I muttered something about taking a shower while he headed for the couch.

I sighed heavily, tilting my head back beneath the rush of the water, letting the heat absorb the nervous energy that rolled off of me in waves. I ran my hands through my hair, rinsing away the shampoo, doing my best to let the stress of the last week wash away with it. Jesus Christ, I just...I needed a joint. Or a drink. Or maybe just to fucking sleep. That was it, I needed to just go to sleep and not wake up until we got his results, and we at least knew which future we had to work with here.

Fuck. What would it do to him? All his progress...if he was diagnosed with HIV, what would happen then? I didn't even want to think about it...falling so hard back to where we were. And yet...it was possibility. We could have months of yet _more _pain ahead of us. Hell, we could have a lifetime of pain ahead of us.

_God, please... _I begged silently, which in itself was a sign of my desperation and the severity of the situation. _Please don't let him hurt anymore. Just let him be okay...._

Even as the last of it swirled down the shower drain, I attributed the stinging of my eyes to the fucking shampoo. It just...it couldn't happen, could it? Could life really be that fucking cruel?

Maybe I was too lost in my thoughts, or maybe the rushing of the water was just too loud, but I didn't hear the bathroom door open. I didn't even see it, until a whirlwind of movement caught my eye. Almost before my brain could register what was happening, the shower door was being thrown open, a breathless blond forcing his way inside, fully clothed and all.

Before I could even ask what the hell he was doing, he was in my arms, shaking, even though the shower was bordering on too hot. What the fuck was going on? What would possibly possess him to....

Oh.

Oh shit.

I felt sick. I wasn't ready for this. I wasn't ready to hear it, and yet, I knew was about to, and I needed to know. Either way, I had to.

"Justin," I said hoarsely, finding that my own voice had pretty much deserted me, and suddenly feeling quite shaky myself. "What is it? What did they...?" Oh God, please...let him be okay....

He lurched against me, swaying slightly, his knees nearly giving way as I struggled to support us both. He gave a shuddering breath that I could distinguish as neither a sob of despair nor a laugh of pure relief.

"I got the call."

The words reverberated inside my head, against my skin.

_I got the call. I got the call. I got the—_

"I left my cell phone, Brian...I left it here and they...while we were gone...."

"Justin," I managed to choke out. His grip on me tightened even further, to the point of actual pain. It was, if anyone had been looking in on us, a rather odd scene: me, completely naked, standing in the middle of the shower, undoubtedly looking as scared as I felt...and Justin, completely clothed, dripping wet, clinging to me as if his life depended on it as the water continued to cascade around us both. "What did they...? Tell me...tell me."

This was it. Six fucking months of waiting, wondering...this was the moment. _Please, please let him be okay.... _Oh God, I was going to be sick...I was just going to lose it...

Finally, he picked his head up off my shoulder. I forced myself to look at him.

I felt my heart do something that might have been a sort of metaphorical faint.

He was smiling.

Nothing sad or melancholy about it. Nothing wistful or placating. It was a real, honest to fucking God Sunshine smile.

"You're...." Negative. Safe. Please. "You're okay?" I asked cautiously, not quite daring to believe it. If the water wasn't beating almost painfully hot, extremely real patterns into my back, I would have been convinced I was dreaming. But pain didn't lie. Relief like this didn't lie.

He nodded, huffing out something that might have been a sob, a laugh of pure joy, or some combination of the two. "I'm okay."

It was like all the wind had been knocked from my lungs. I just crushed him to me, joining him in his state of all-consuming, overwhelming relief.

For a while, we just held onto each other, neither of us willing to break the contact. If I could have picked him up and held him without losing my balance on the slippery floor of the shower, I would have. Every part of me felt strengthened, energized, relieved. Every sense was ten times more aware as I finally broke away and kissed him and he kissed back and we just stood there beneath the downpour of the shower, kissing and laughing against each other's lips, the weight we'd been carrying on our shoulders for months suddenly feeling light as air.

This was...fucking incredible, that's what it was. I tried to remember the last time I'd felt such delirious relief. My first thought was that morning, what felt like so long ago in the hospital after the bashing, finding out that Justin was going to live. My second thought was that night—not so long ago at all—up on that rooftop, my arms closing around Justin, tethering him to his own life.

After what might have been hours, was probably seconds, he pulled away from the kiss, his smile still blinding me, seeming to rebound off the glass and fill the entire shower with light.

"I'm soaked," he laughed, looking down at himself. He really was quite a sight, fully clothed, his shirt and pants and hair all plastered to his body. He apparently hadn't wanted to waste a second to share this with me.

"Don't worry, it's a good look for you, Sunshine," I said, only half-joking. Honestly, he looked pretty hot. Even ador—well, he looked a lot of things that could only be described with some decidedly lesbionic words.

He laughed again, practically high with joy, peeling the edge of his shirt away from his body. "Yeah, I hear the wet dog look is in this season."

"Nah, just the wet blond boy look."

He grinned. Now, my shower was big—certainly large enough for the both of us to fit comfortably inside—but even so, he very nearly took out my eye with his elbow as he struggled and maneuvered to peel off his sopping wet T-shirt. It hit the floor with a satisfying _smack, _and within seconds, we were kissing again, embracing each other completely.

Something in the back of my mind nudged me, warned me against letting this go too far. Only a week ago had Justin allowed me to kiss him and touch him while we both were completely naked. Yeah, he'd slept beside me _au naturel _the night before, but that still didn't mean we should push it.

He moaned, throwing his head back, allowing me better access to his neck. God, this was so good...he always was....

Fuck, I should stop this. I knew I should stop this. But he felt so warm and wet and wonderful beneath my hands and lips and tongue, and I just...God, I didn't want to stop. Not if he didn't want me to, and he wasn't doing a thing to push me away. On the contrary, his fingernails were digging tightly into my exposed back and shoulders, pulling me in, holding me there.

He was wearing his once-baggy cargo pants that were now sticking to his skin in all the right places, drenched to the bone. They felt strange against my bare skin, my legs and hips and cock, hard by this point and pressing insistently against him. He groaned again and grasped at me tighter, clawing at my back, lips crushed against mine. I had him gently pressed against the side of the shower, my hands between the wall and his back. Hesitantly, I let them slip a little lower, cupping his ass in my palms. To my surprise, he pushed his hips into me as I groped him, and I found that he, too, was hard.

The water rushed around us, between us, over us both. It stung my eyes whenever I opened them, but I fought against the discomfort, needing to see his face, his body...him. I tangled my hands in his hair, darker when it was wet like this, his own fingers alternating between grasping at my shoulders and clawing needily at my back.

I had a leg wedged between his thighs, and it didn't escape my notice when he pushed his hips forward, his hard cock pressing against me. He groaned with the pleasure procured from his own actions, then did it again. I didn't know what we were doing or what he was planning to do, but despite my better judgment—or maybe it was merely paranoia and nerves—I decided to let it happen. Or, rather, let _him _decide what happened. I'd let him take the lead in this and decide how far it went...not that he always presented the best judgment where this type of thing was concerned, but it was his call to make, all the same.

It was all deeper, harder, more, longer...both of us only managing to grow needier as we fought to satisfy our hunger for each other. It didn't matter; I already knew I'd never be able to get enough.

Justin wasn't, after all, the type of addiction one could just quit.

**~. Justin .~**

It was hot, and steamy, and erotic...my very nerves were exploding, unable to handle all of this. I was okay. I was fucking _okay, _here and healthy and feeling happier than I could ever remember feeling in my life.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that I was fine, and Brian was here, looking and feeling so perfect against me right now. Wet and hard and I'd never wanted him more than I did right then, high on relief, a buzz coursing through my veins not unlike that of E or alcohol.

He had one hand in my hair, one on my ass, holding me as close as he could get me. I held him, too, wrapped myself around him—unwilling to allow so much as an inch of space between our bodies. He had his leg pressed in between mine, and it felt so good, that barely-there gentle pressure, that I pushed my hips forward, taking pleasure from the friction.

I wanted more of him. And with this buzz, this high overriding almost everything else, I thought I might even have the courage to go for it, riding on the waves of my mingled joy and relief. I relinquished my grip on Brian's shoulders to fumble with the front of my own pants, eager to be rid of the irritating wet fabric, preferring Brian's skin by far.

"Justin," he said, his tone a warning, but I ignored it, pulling him down for a kiss with one hand while pushing at the waistband of my pants with the other. "What are you doing?" he demanded, his hand halting mine as it continued to try and push my pants around my thighs.

"I don't know," I said honestly. I didn't know what I planned to do once I got them off, or how far I could handle taking this. I just knew I wanted the clingy fabric off my legs, and that I wanted Brian's skin there instead, wet and warm, like his tongue as I continued to kiss him.

With some struggling, I managed to remove my thoroughly soaked pants at last, letting them drop to the floor, soft beneath my feet. I felt immediately more bare, more open...I felt my stomach clench a little, and told myself to relax. It was just Brian. Just him, with his gentle kisses and hands sifting lovingly through my hair. Just his body against mine, his lips, his face.

I was standing there in nothing but underwear, feeling goosebumps shoot up my arms that should have been impossible, given the heat of the shower. But...this was okay, right? It felt okay, mostly...just a little...much. But okay. Good. Now, I just had to—

I felt more than saw Brian tense as I slid my underwear down over my hips, letting them fall just like my pants and shirt.

"Justin." The single spoken word was part question, part warning, and part something I didn't even recognize.

We just stood there, faces inches from each other's, absorbing the nerves and excitement and everything else of the moment. I felt the ever-present tension, a nauseous little knot inside my stomach, but there was also that exhilarated thrill I got with him, rushing through my veins, that mingled sensation of love and lust and desire and need. Everything sort of twisted together inside me, the good and the bad, shortening my breath and making me feel kind of dizzy, like the kind of feeling you got looking down from a great height.

But _God, _I didn't want to stop...couldn't stand to stop this now.

And so I kissed him.

He gave a muffled moan against my lips, every muscle tense beneath my hands, as though he were holding himself back. I kissed him harder, deeper, intent on making him realize that I wasn't doing a thing I didn't want to, that this was exactly what I wanted. This, right here, with him. I pushed away at my anxiety—the jumpy, nervous feeling I got just from being so exposed around another human being—and tried to focus on the warmth of Brian's mouth and the tender touch of his hands on me, the knowledge of ultimate safety and love I had with him.

"Justin," he gasped. His cock was pressing into me, hard and begging for attention. Attention I wasn't sure I could give—attention I knew he would neither expect nor ask me to give him. Somehow, though, that only made me want to give it more. I mean, this was _Brian _here, standing in front of me_. _This was the man I loved more than anything in the world, more than my own fucking life. This was nothing—fucking _nothing—_like that night, that experience. I loved this. I wanted this. Maybe, despite everything, something inside me still even needed it.

The heat of the shower aside, nearly my entire body was now covered in goosebumps. My stomach was doing flips worthy of some kind of Olympics, my heart beating rapidly against my chest. I felt scared and excited and elated, all at once, melting into his hands one moment then going tense beneath them the next. It was like, I was _trying _to will myself not to freak out or anything, not to remember...but at the same time, just doing so _made _me think, made me nervous. And I didn't want to be nervous. Past fears, past experiences...they had no place here. Not when Brian was doing the most amazing things to my body, making me love him and crave him and need him and oh my God, I just wanted fucking _more _of this.

I kissed him again, hard and wet and deep. Melted into him. I stood there, hand on the back of his neck, my own eyes locked onto his hazel ones.

My heart made a valiant leap into my throat...as though it knew...as if it were already far ahead of my mind, and was just waiting for it to catch up. My breath caught, war raging inside me as Brian just stood there...waiting, watching. For what, I don't think he even knew. For me, I guess.

I pulled him down for another kiss, and felt his breath hitch against my lips when my hand closed around his dick. I stroked it a few times, my lungs feeling as though they'd crumpled inside me, leaving me unable to take in a breath. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, keep them trained on my face, groaning as I continued my ministrations.

And it wasn't...I mean, it was just _him. _It was just him standing in front of me, his face I was seeing, his (fucking hard, fucking beautiful...) dick in my hand. No Them. No That Night. No horrible flashes of memories or sick feelings in my stomach. Unbelievable nerves, yes, as well as a rather unpleasant burning lump in my throat that I tried my best to swallow down. But otherwise, it was just me and Brian in that shower, as though we'd stripped ourselves of all those old nightmares before stepping inside— the memories pressing up against the outside of the glass, maybe—but never getting past it. Never quite reaching us in here.

Slowly, my heart beating so fast I thought it might work itself into cardiac arrest, I took his hand in mine. I forced my thoughts away from all those memories on the outside of the glass, all those old feelings of grime and guilt and shame, and let Brian's touch and the rush of the shower wash them away.

Trying, but not quite succeeding, to keep my hand from trembling, I closed my eyes briefly, and brought Brian's hand to my dick, feeling something akin to an electric shock jolt through me. He didn't move at all for a moment, then—probably scrutinizing my face with the expertise he'd gleaned over the last not-quite-year since the bashing—he squeezed gently, causing me to give a great, shuddering gasp and sending a curse tumbling from between my lips. "Brian...."

He blinked at me through the water pouring relentlessly over the two of us, and I stared back through the hair in my own eyes. I felt my pulse racing, every cell in my body alight with something I hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity.

He gave my cock a few gentle strokes, making me gasp, my toes curling in the water on the shower floor. It felt so good in so many ways that I almost forgot I had him in my hand, as well. _Fuck,_ I had him in my hand...I was _touching _him again...and what was more, I was letting him touch me. My eyes remained locked on his, never leaving them for even a second as I moved my hand up and down his hard shaft, watching the pleasure play across his face. It was almost surreal, like I could just blink and open my eyes and wake up and it would be gone.

Fuck, I didn't want to wake up. I didn't want to ever wake up from this dream, if that was what it was. I didn't ever want to let this go, didn't ever want it to end.

His breathing was becoming erratic, heavy and audible even over the downpour of the water beating patterns over our skin. I squeezed my eyes shut tight against the ecstasy spreading throughout my body as he worked me expertly, experienced hands employing every trick he knew I loved. He still knew my body better than anyone—he hadn't forgotten at all, even after all these months.

As much as I wanted to remember what it felt like to get off and enjoy myself, however, I wanted to make this good for him, too. After all, he hadn't been with me this way either in just as long—he'd suffered through this drought right along with me. Besides, touching him had been something I'd missed for so long, and I relished it so much right then, I just had to have it, had to keep my hands moving on him and keep him making those noises. So I tried my best to keep my shaking hands under control, and utilize a few tricks of my own, loving the way his eyes fluttered in pleasure, the way his groans spoke of pure bliss. Bliss I gave him.

Meanwhile, I was in heaven. Maybe I had fucking died sometime that morning and was just now getting the memo or something, because nothing in the world had ever felt that good. Nothing had ever meant that much to me, or felt so incredible. And that was saying something, since sex with Brian had always been at the top of the list of the seven wonders of my life.

I mean—was it the same? Could I honestly say that doing that with him right then was the same as every other time we'd done it?

No. I couldn't. Maybe it never would be. And maybe the differences weren't only positive. But all those fears I'd had—if it would be the same, if I would still like it, if I could ever even handle it again—they just didn't matter right then. Nothing mattered except that Brian was rubbing his thumb over the head of my dick, making me gasp and nearly cry out with the insane pleasure I felt from it. Nothing mattered except that I had Brian's cock in my hand, our lips fused together in a fervent kiss. Nothing mattered except that moment, right there, with him.

And no, it didn't mean that those uncomfortable little nudges at the back of my mind didn't exist, or that just because the filthy, sick feelings in my stomach were momentarily absent that my skin didn't prickle with occasional unease as we moved against each other. It didn't mean that _It _was gone, or that it was like nothing ever happened. It just meant that, right then, for that moment—we were stronger. Brian and I...what we had together...it was stronger than any fear or filth or doubt. It was stronger than cruelty and ruthlessness and the damage such acts could leave behind. Because right then, our lips were meeting in a searing kiss, his caresses so tender, stroking and playing and teasing across my skin. And that was enough.

Every move he made, every move I made in return...it was an _I love you_ spoken in our own personal body language. A foreign language, almost...one I'd once been fluent in, but had forgotten some of the finer points of after such a long period of disuse. Not quite natural to slip back into, but the passion for it overwhelmed anything else.

Sure enough, I could feel the once-familiar sensation building, the tension, the pressure...I could feel it emanating from somewhere deep inside me, spreading throughout my body, warm and fiery and unlike anything else in the world. Brian's lips were hot on mine, each kiss setting me on fire as the hand on my cock alternated between languid strokes and quicker ones, keeping me on edge, keeping me gasping for breath and longing for release.

He moaned something against my lips that might have been my name, and I'm pretty sure I gasped out an _I love you...._

And then I came, shaking and shuddering fiercely, every sense giving way to the most powerful, earth-shattering orgasm I had ever known.

I stumbled and collapsed into Brian—half-laughing, half-crying against his chest. His arms came around me immediately, hugging me to him, pressing light, fluttering kisses to the side of my head, my cheek, my ear, my hair...and I just wrapped myself around him, too stunned to hold myself up on my own. For a moment, I thought he was trembling—then I realized that was me, my entire body shuddering against him.

"Brian—" I felt his answering smile against my skin...another warm kiss pressed there. "Brian...." I said again, burrowing myself into him. I'd...oh my God. I'd fucking...I'd fucking had a—

But he hadn't. Somehow, in my slightly disoriented, orgasm-induced haze, this fact registered. And I was not leaving it like this—whatever happened, whatever steps we took, we took them together, in every sense of the word.

My hand slid down his chest, his stomach, between our bodies, and closed around his still rock-hard dick. Huddled as close as possible against him, I stroked, and it wasn't long before his hand joined mine, both of us jerking him off. I couldn't draw my eyes away, remembering so many long, hot showers not so different than this one. I remembered his hands massaging shampoo into my hair, and I remembered soapy fingers slipping inside me. I remembered sinking to my knees and wrapping my lips around him, remembered him doing the same. I remembered the time we'd decided it would be a good idea for me to try to fuck _him_ in here, remembered that it had worked out about as well as the time he'd tried to pick me up and fuck me against the shower wall with my legs around his waist—in other words, not well at all.

And there was just...us.

Nerves—but no real fear.

Memories—at the back of my mind as always—but no flashbacks.

No pain, no helplessness....

No _them. _

Just us. Just love and joy and disbelief. Just Brian, giving a muffled cry into the skin of my neck as I felt something hot and wet explode between us, mingling with the warmth of our bodies and the shower. And then his arms were around me again, and for the longest time, we just stood there, holding each other close. I felt something hot trickling down my cheeks, almost indistinguishable from the water of the shower, some sort of dazed euphoria bubbling up inside me and flowing out in the form of jubilant tears.

Only once the water became too cold to stand did we finally remove ourselves from the downpour of the shower. Brian grabbed us a couple of towels, wrapping one around his own waist and then turning his attention to me.

I let him dry me off, too overcome to do much more than stand there. Every sensation against my skin felt like a sweet caress, his lips occasionally descending onto mine for deep, languid kisses that made me feel like I might fall over if I wasn't already practically floating.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, leaning close as he massaged my skin. He kissed my forehead when I nodded, and I let him dry my shoulders, my stomach, my back. He pressed another soft kiss to my lips, then dropped to his knees to dry my legs. I forced myself to breathe, watching him there as he carefully dried every inch of my skin. I let my fingers brush across the top of his hair, though I couldn't help being grateful when he ignored a very prominent part of my anatomy, at his eye-level right about that point. I didn't think I could handle anything else right then. I was having a hard enough time processing this, as it was.

Which might have been why, when he was finished and back on his feet, I just couldn't help it; I threw myself into him, my arms going around his neck as though afraid the excitement of the evening might just carry us away if we weren't careful. I buried my face in his shoulder and held on tight, just needing to feel him wrapped around me, needing to know that he was there with me, really there, and that he wouldn't be letting me go.

Eventually—and I didn't remember exactly when or how this happened—we managed to stumble into the bedroom. Brian let his towel drop at the edge of the bed, but he didn't protest when I clung to mine even as we fell across the duvet. I draped it across our waists, our legs entwined beneath the soft, dark fabric of the towel. It was essentially a useless gesture, but maybe I just needed the small impression of security right then. He was beneath it with me, though, and that was all mattered.

As we laid there, it started to sink in a little, I think. The disbelief, the utterly surreal quality to the whole thing. There was a somewhat delayed knot of tension in my stomach that was quickly soothed away by Brian's hands continually combing wet strands of hair back from my face. And I just laid there, all the while wanting to tell him that I loved him, wanting to cry, and laugh, and thank him for this...this awe-inspiring thing filling me up inside. I felt shaky and happy and basically felt like my seventeen year old, just-devirginized self again. In a way, so much was the same as that night. The fear, the nerves, the incredulity, the wonder.

I'd just come. For the first time in six months, I'd done something for myself, taking back that part of my life, thrilling and exciting and inescapably sexual.

For the first time in six months...it hadn't been about them.

I smiled against Brian's lips, reveling in his kisses, the way his arms felt around me...the way it felt to really be fucking _loved _by this man.

No—this, here, tonight—it had been about _us. _

**~. Brian .~**

His eyes were red. I'd had a hunch he'd been crying in the shower, but in there, I hadn't been able to distinguish his tears from the downpour of water. Now, though, he couldn't hide it, the moisture pooling in his eyes and leaving glistening streaks on the back of his hand as he wiped them away.

Meanwhile, I was having my own elated, internally-emotional breakdown.

I tried to remember the last time I'd felt happiness like this—the kind that just filled you up completely until it felt like your chest might explode at any given second. The kind that warmed you and warned you that nothing else would ever feel this good, the kind where you just _knew_ beyond a doubt that your life, in that moment, was as perfect as it was ever going to get.

I just laid there and held him and kissed him, trying to contain the joy I felt emanating from every pore, from every cell of my body.

Justin had fucking _come. _

Justin—Justin had let me touch him...and _oh God _that had felt so good, to have him in my hand again. The only thing to rival it had been his own hand on my dick, skilled as ever, bringing me pleasure I hadn't felt since—well, since the last time I'd been with him, if I was being honest with myself. Nothing had ever carried the same weight when it wasn't with him; it was so much more than sex or just getting off—it was a mark of how much things had changed, how far we'd come. It was intimacy, and trust, and love. Fucking lesbionic things that were somehow responsible for the happiest moment I'd had in months. Christ, just his _face—_his face when I'd been jerking him off—that alone was completely worth it. And when he'd come—_Christ, he'd actually fucking come—_it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life.

I'd been perfectly happy to just let him have that, to be honest, and set aside my own pleasure after he'd reached his orgasm, but he'd been insistent on getting us both off. I never thought something as simple and ordinary as a hand job in the shower could be the most amazing thing I'd experienced in six months. But then...it was so much more than that, wasn't it? It was Justin—reclaiming himself. Reclaiming part of what we were...what we'd been robbed of, all those months ago. What belonged to us.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I whispered into his hair. I mean...he was crying. And while I was pretty sure they were mostly tears of the overwhelmingly happy persuasion, there were a few instances where I was sure I'd seen a momentary flash of something across his face that I couldn't be sure I liked. He nodded, though, giving me a watery smile and kissing me for proof. He kissed me deeply, soundly...but it was short lived. Mostly, he just seemed to want to be held. And so I let him bury his face in my neck, and ran my hands up and down his sides, over his hips, still letting the sensations of joy and liveliness and relief and amazement overcome me, take me and fill me up and make me theirs.

Just as he'd made me _his, _so long ago. Because I was. And vice versa, I liked to think.

"Brian..."

I lifted my chin from still-damp strands of blond hair to look him in the eye.

"I..." His face was teeming with emotion, incredulity and joy and something else I couldn't identify...something overwhelmed and not quite good, but not necessarily bad, either. Like there was just too much going on inside to put into words. "I'm..."

"I know," I said, because I did. Everything he was thinking, every emotion he was feeling, was being echoed inside my own chest. "I know...me too."

* * *

**A/N: TBC**


	31. Alone

**A/N: Um, I have no excuse. This chapter kicked my ass, to the point that I procrastinated my ass off and didn't work on it, then when I _did _work on it, I was metaphorically banging my head against the wall trying to get it the way I wanted it. All of this considered, I'm actually pretty pleased with how it turned out, but that might just be because it's finally done. **

**Also, I don't want to promise anything, because this can always change, but if I stick to the general outline I've got, there will probably only be about three chapters left. And I've been looking forward to writing this part for a while, so hopefully it will go smoother than this chapter did. I promise to do my very best to finish the story...after all this, there's no way I can abandon it :) **

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**~. Justin .~**

For those few brief moments between sleep and consciousness, I thought it was a morning like any other. I thought I'd open my eyes to be blinded by the sun, and look over to find Brian, clad in boxers and nothing else, snoring lightly next to me.

Then I opened my eyes, was blinded by the sun, and it hit me. The blue fabric of my towel from the night before, twisted between the sheets with us. Brian...snoring, as I knew he would be, but wearing nothing at all.

And then I remembered.

We'd had sex.

I sat up, my breath catching a little in my throat. Oh my God. I'd...with Brian...oh my_ God. _

You know those moments in your life...those huge, earth-shattering ones that you wait for and hope for and _yearn _for? Those ones that, once they arrive, you don't really know what to think, because you just fucking _feel _way too much to make sense of any of it? That's what this one was. My head was just spinning, and I felt like laughing and crying and I think I might have done a little of both. Joy and love and relief and a thousand other things coursed through my body, giving me a rush and making my head whirl.

I fell back to the pillows, taking a deep breath and trying my best to steady myself, that one phrase running continuously through my head: _We had sex. _

Well...sort of, anyway. Did it count if it was only a couple of mutual hand-jobs? I mean...we'd both had orgasms. Did it count as sex if the end result was the same? Either way, it was a hell of a lot more than anything else we'd done in the last six-plus months.

Suddenly needing the contact, I rolled over and curled up next to Brian, my body melting and molding into his just the way it always had. Even more amazing than what we'd done last night was the fact that I'd actually _enjoyed _it. After all these months being plagued with so many fears and doubts, it was a greater relief than I could have imagined. All along, I'd been so afraid that, even if we _were _able to have sex again someday, it wouldn't be the same. I mean, how many people had passion like we did? It was one of the best things about being with him, and I was just so grateful that we seemed to have held onto it. Though as it turned out, my fears hadn't been completely baseless; there was no denying that sex with him had changed.

In some ways, it had been even better. After all this time, and after all we'd gone through to get here, I'd been graced with a new perspective; I no longer took for granted what we shared together, appreciating every single touch, every kiss with him.

In other ways, however, I was sure things would never return to the way they were. Really, how could I have expected them to be the same? There was, after all, the irrefutable presence of this ugly, terrible thing in our lives now, inescapable no matter how much we would like to pretend it didn't exist. So of course it had changed things. Before, I wouldn't have hesitated to join Brian in the shower at all. Before, mutual hand-jobs would have been just another night, nothing special. Before, I wouldn't have had to combat my own fears, my own memories, just to be with my boyfriend.

But I did. And I had.

I lay there for nearly an hour, just stroking Brian's hair as he slept, savoring the look of utter serenity on his face. I traced his lips, his cheeks, his chin with my fingers, loving him more right then than I ever thought was possible. I closed my eyes against the swelling of emotion within them, hugging his arm to my chest and pressing my forehead against his shoulder, something like victory bubbling up inside me.

Because, despite it all, _they_ hadn't won. They hadn't been allowed to take this from me, this integral part of who I was. And it made me want to laugh at them, scream and cry and shove it in their faces. As if by overcoming things enough to be with Brian the way I had last night, I'd beaten them, somehow. This morning, with its sunlight falling across the duvet, with its peaceful silence and extraordinary ordinariness...it was a victory, a win for the Kinney-Taylor team.

Well, I amended in my head, smiling a little to myself, maybe the Taylor-Kinney team sounded better.

Because we were. A team, that was. Partners. I knew that, had known it for a while now, and it was stupid, but it felt like last night had validated that somehow. Despite some of my old fears, we'd only seemed to grow closer since it had happened; even Brian himself hadn't denied the fact that we were in a relationship since before the bashing.

Only— and I hadn't really realized that I'd even been thinking this until this morning— but since the party, and all that had come along with it...it was almost as though we were _less, _somehow. Like we weren't really _us _unless we were _all _of us, a whole unit, not the broken little pieces we'd struggled to put back together for so long. And this morning, lying here next to him...it was like we were almost whole again, a little less broken than before. What we'd done last night...it may not have been all we were once capable of, but it was just like one more piece of the puzzle— and an essential one, at that— had been discovered and returned to us.

So, now the question was...where did that leave us? Now that we more or less had this part of our lives back, what did that mean?

I felt those familiar, unbidden pinpricks of doubt at the edge of my mind, piercing the euphoric bliss of the morning and drawing my attention, once again, to my own fears. I mean, yeah, we'd done it last night, but...did that mean we could just do it again whenever we felt like it? Or would every occasion be as momentous as this one? For all I knew, it could be another six months before anything like this happened again.

I felt my stomach sink a little. I wished I didn't have to think about this, especially this morning, when things should be so content and serene and happy, but...well, how could I avoid it? What if Brian suddenly expected things to be completely better? I mean, I knew he wouldn't be angry or anything, but what if he was disappointed if I couldn't do it again right away? I doubted he'd be particularly expressive about it, but that didn't mean his disappointment wouldn't exist. Not that I would blame him; if it turned out that last night had been a one-time thing, I had a feeling that I'd be more devastated than he would.

Whatever ended up happening, though, I did need to figure out exactly where Brian's head was at. Mine was stuck somewhere between hopefulness and anxiety, and I tried my best to push my doubts from my mind and concentrate on the positive, the way Kathy was always telling me to. _Take each __problem and find the silver lining. _That was one of the techniques she was always telling me to try.

Okay, the problem: I didn't know if I could be with Brian again as soon as I liked.

The silver lining: We'd had last night together, which was more than we'd had in a long, long time. Maybe it was all we'd have for a while, but it was already a huge improvement from where we'd been yesterday.

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure the moment inside my head, that picture perfect scene...tried to concentrate on the positive, just like Kathy said. I recalled the sensation of Brian's soft kisses as he parted my lips with his own...his hands on me, so gentle and talented and bringing me so much pleasure.... God, I never thought just his hand on my cock could be so good...and mine on his....

I let my fingers trace idle paths down his chest, watching it rise and fall with every breath. I marveled at his skin— stupid, I know, but Brian had skin worthy of admiration. The way it stretched over taut muscles, so smooth beneath my touch, which may have had something to do with all those expensive lotions he was always trying— or maybe it was just Brian. There was the way it looked in contrast to mine. The way goosebumps would prickle across it when my fingers ran over the right places. The way it tasted. The sounds he made when I lapped at it with my tongue.

As I laid there, I wondered if there was actually any part of Brian that I didn't love, that I hadn't worshiped with my tongue or hands or lips at one point or another. I knew every inch of him, from his silky auburn hair to each and every toe. I knew him— literally— inside and outside, and with knowledge gleaned from experience could compare and contrast the respective flavors of each. I knew the warmth of his cock inside me, and I knew the heat of his ass around my own dick. I knew every crevice, knew exactly where to find his crooked little tooth with my tongue, every freckle, every scar. And he knew my body just as well.

I let my hands find all this as we laid there together, running my palms down his sculpted arms— powerful enough to do some real damage, if he wanted to. Powerful enough to intimidate the rest of the world. For me, though, they held a different sort of power. They held me close when I cried, closer when we kissed. They encompassed me and protected me from everything, kept me warm and safe.

I ran my fingers across each of his nipples, down his chest to trace circles around his belly-button. Back when daily blow jobs were a regular thing, teasing like this would always be one of my favorite parts of it. He had such a reaction to being played with...his nipples being pinched, my tongue in his belly-button, kisses down his chest...it would drive him crazy. Which, naturally, only made me want to do it more, until he couldn't take it any longer and tugged on my hair in indication that he was done being teased, and was ready to move on to the main event. I smiled, almost sadly; I missed that. I hadn't had his cock in my mouth for so long, I'd forgotten what he tasted like. Or rather, I _knew _what he tasted like— I didn't think I'd ever really _forget— _but it was more like a shadow of the flavor, the ghost of it on my tongue.

My hand froze in its exploration just before it dipped too low, as though an invisible stop-sign stood, warning me against going any further. I let my palm rest against his lower pelvis, right where that little pleasure trail gave in to a full nest of hairs. I itched to slide a little lower, close my hand around him, but it was as though my fingers weren't getting the message from my brain. I couldn't make them move. Which was just as well, I supposed. I was perfectly content to just lay there, watching him sleep and marveling over every beautiful aspect of him. As I lay there, I closed my eyes and thanked any deity that was listening for letting me be HIV negative. I could easily, I knew, be dealing with a very different type of morning, if that phone call had gone differently.

But it hadn't, and I was okay, and that meant I could lie here and appreciate the beauty of the man I loved, knowing that one day— maybe even in the near future— things would really be right with us again, in every way. Because it was possible, because I didn't have HIV and I wouldn't have to worry about keeping him safe and I didn't have more medication and hospital visits and physical hell in store for me. Because I was negative. Because slowly, the mark that night had left on me was fading...like a scar I had been sure would remain on my skin, stark-white and glaring, for the rest of my life, but that was becoming less and less visible with every passing day.

It was as I contemplated this that I first felt Brian begin to stir. He gave a yawn that, with my head pressed to his chest over his heart, I felt as much as heard. His fingertips grazed the bare skin of my back, his head turning slightly so that his lips brushed against my forehead.

"Morning, Sunshine," he whispered. And even through the huskiness of sleep, I could hear something that sounded remarkably like hesitance in his voice. Not because he thought I might be sleeping— he almost always seemed to be able to tell when I was awake— but he spoke with that air one took up at the bedside of the terminally ill, like I was just too fragile to risk shattering, when he didn't know what version of me he'd be dealing with this morning.

I pulled my head from his shoulder, and let the beaming smile that had been threatening to break across my lips all morning do so now, letting it reassure him, reassure us both. "Morning."

I saw the relief breaking across his face, the warmth in his eyes...the love there. "How'd you sleep?" he asked, still speaking softly, but with less trepidation than before.

I realized suddenly, with his mention of sleep, that with everything else that had been going on I'd forgotten to take my sleeping pill the night before. Even so, I hadn't had a single nightmare. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept so well, even with the pills. It was as though the emotional intensity of last night had drained me of all energy.

"Like a Friday-night club-goer," I answered. It was his own weird saying that he'd thrown at me months ago...before the bashing, even. I'd woken up after a long night of mind-blowing sex with him and traipsed out to the kitchen with a considerably sore ass, where he'd wordlessly handed me a cup of coffee and asked me how I'd slept. I'd replied with the old saying, 'like a baby,' to which he'd snorted. "Babies don't sleep," he'd said. "Babies scream all night and annoy the hell out of their parents. Drunk, stoned, fucked-out Friday-night club-goers sleep."

His lips quirked upward, amusement dancing in his still-sleep-clouded eyes. "Are you okay?"

I nodded, smiling a little at the tender concern in his voice. "Better than," I promised.

He just looked at me for a moment, his gaze shifting from one of my eyes to the other, as if one of them might suddenly give up the game and admit that it was all a lie. Satisfied when neither of them blinked at him with anything but the obvious truth, he returned my smile.

"Come here."

I was already about as close to him as I could physically get, but I understood, shifting until I was in an optimal position to thoroughly kiss him. I relished the way it felt to be pressed against him, completely naked, kissing as if we didn't have a care in the world. Soon, though, I could feel both our dicks stirring between us, and found myself with that unavoidable little pit of nerves fluttering inside my stomach.

I tried to give him a reassuring type of smile when I pulled away from his kiss, threading my fingers through the strands of his hair. Okay...so apparently even an orgasm with all the necessary intensity to shatter not only the earth itself, but everything in its casual vicinity, couldn't quite keep away those feelings I'd been dealing with for months now. But that was okay, for the moment. Because last night had quite possibly been one of the best of my life. I'd found out I was HIV negative. I'd come closer to real sex with Brian than I had in what felt like a lifetime. And now I was waking up to this incredible morning-after feeling, and I just wanted to bask in it like sunshine for as long as possible.

Even the brightest of days, though, tended to have a least a wisp of a cloud, somewhere in the distance. And after a long while of silence with Brian, I felt compelled to bring it up.

"Brian?"

"Hmm?" he asked, sounding on the verge of sleep again. I was pretty sure he'd still been awake when I'd drifted off in his arms last night, and I wondered if he'd ended up falling asleep soon afterward, or if he'd stayed up...maybe even thinking about some of the things that had been on my mind this morning.

"I've been thinking...."

"Justin, it's ten AM on a Sunday. What the hell are you doing that for?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm serious, Brian."

He let out a deep breath; my head, once again employing his chest as a pillow, fell along with his body. "Okay. About what?"

"Sex." Boldness always did work best with him. Beating around the bush only ever served to make him impatient or suspicious. Or both.

His voice immediately took on a deeper, sultry tone that, once upon a time, would have gone straight to my cock. "I'm listening."

"Brian."

"Sorry...go on."

"Um...well, what we did...it was great," I began, unsure how to get this out. What was I supposed to say? _What if we only got one shot at it, and I can never do it again?_ I knew better than to say that. He'd immediately discard my concerns, assuring me that if it had happened this once, it would happen again someday, even if we did have to wait.

And if we had to wait another fucking six months? Well, asking him that would be just as bad. He'd brush off my fears and frustrations with promises that he was fine with waiting, that it would happen again, and that last night had been enough. Which would be sweet and all, but it wasn't exactly what I needed to hear. Now that I thought about it, I wasn't entirely sure what I _did _need to hear, but the same tired vows were most definitely not it. I knew we could wait. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that it _would _happen again someday. The question was _when_, and how well would we fare until then, knowing what we were missing?

"Yeah," he agreed, and though I couldn't see his face, I could feel the smile in his voice. "Good to know we haven't lost our touch."

"I bet we could still turn a few heads at Babylon," I agreed.

"A few?" I could hear the mock-scoff in his tone, could imagine the matching expression on his face. "You're selling us short, Sunshine. You're talking about the two hottest fags in Pittsburgh here."

I snorted. "Even if one of us is out of commission these days."

"You weren't last night," he whispered into my ear, giving my ass a playful little squeeze. "You were fucking hot."

I smiled a little sadly, closing my eyes against dozens of memories where he'd said exactly the same thing, after one of our numerous mind-blowingly hot fucks. "Back at you."

"Do you remember that time...the first time I took you to the baths....?"

"Where they applauded us?" I laughed into his skin, burying my head in his neck.

"Your face was so red," he recalled, snickering.

"Didn't stop me from dropping to my knees and sucking you off," I said, smiling at the memory. It had been one of the hottest "firsts" I'd ever shared with Brian. I remembered that night with vivid clarity; after my initiation to the Liberty Baths, he'd taken me home with him to suck me off and fuck me into the mattress until we'd both collapsed from sheer exhaustion. "God, I wish we could do that again," I said wistfully.

It was quiet for a moment, both of us adjusting to the weight that had settled back over us like a blanket, thick and oppressive.

"When you said you wanted to talk about sex...this isn't what you meant." It wasn't a question.

"No," I admitted, clearing my throat and trying to do the same with my mind. "I just, uh— I need to know...where you are."

I glanced up at him; he was frowning, that one eyebrow halfway up his forehead. "I'm assuming on the bed next to you isn't the answer you're looking for?"

"Not exactly. I mean...in terms of expectations," I clarified.

He stared at me for a moment, his gaze soft and almost contemplative. "I told you before, Justin...no expectations. We just...make it up as we go along."

I nodded, letting out a breath of relief at hearing these words from his mouth. It wasn't that I thought he'd suddenly start pushing me to have sex for real or anything like that, but...if, by some chance, he was _expecting _that— was expecting things to suddenly be so much better— well, I wanted us to be on the same page about this.

"Just...checking. I mean, what we did was...I loved it, but I don't know if I'm always going to be up for that, you know? It still feels like— well, it's still a lot to handle, and...I don't want you to be disappointed if you were expecting some kind of—"

"The only thing I expect is for you to just...keep doing this. What makes you comfortable. What you _want," _he said firmly.

I smiled again, relaxing a little in his arms, a familiar warmth spreading throughout my body. He'd been so fucking amazing through all of this— was continuing to be amazing, proving day after day how much he cared about me. I wished, not for the first time, that I could show him how much I returned the sentiment, but...well, one step at a time.

"You know I love you." Maybe I couldn't show him...not the way we used to be able to show each other, anyway...but I could tell him, and hope it was enough until I could thoroughly demonstrate my appreciation for his presence in my life.

His mouth twitched. "Yeah. You're not so bad yourself."

I raised my eyebrows, amused. "Just _not bad?"_

He gave a noncommittal shrug. "Yeah. You're alright."

I pulled away from him, his arm falling from around my shoulders, and sat up. "Admit it. You so care about me," I teased, letting the words sink through time and layers of emotional baggage to settle in our present, still as playfully knowing and as loving as they'd been the first time I'd spoken them.

Unlike before the bashing, however, Brian was a bit more self-aware about how he felt. He didn't run away screaming at the word "relationship," anyway, and that in itself was a drastic improvement to his pre-prom self. Okay, so I'd had my doubts, too, at least after _It _had happened. Before, if someone had asked me what his reaction would have been upon learning I'd been hurt, I probably would have guessed at something comparative to the aftermath of the bashing. He'd been so sweet, so caring, so supportive after that.

It was just that _It _had ruined not only the way I saw myself, but the way I interpreted everything else too. How I'd ever imagined— after all Brian had done for me— that he wouldn't want me if he knew what I'd been through, I didn't know. Those thoughts belonged to a different Justin; those fears, those insecurities...they were all his. I didn't know when exactly things had turned around. I was just glad they had.

"I'll admit, under proper intoxication, I can be somewhat _fond _of you at times...." he drawled.

_Fond _of me. Right, because Brian regularly threw his entire life off balance for people he was merely 'fond' of. "You're an asshole."

"Though I could live without the verbal abuse."

"Right, and 'twat' is a term of endearment?" I countered.

"Actually, yes," he said matter-of-factly.

"Really?" I raised a quizzical eyebrow in his direction. "And here I thought you wanted nothing to do with twats."

His initial impish grin softened to a smile, tinged with vulnerability. "Well, in your case, I'm willing to make a minor exception." He rolled his lips inward, in that way he did when he was feeling emotionally exposed. Yep, definitely a bit of the vulnerable thing going on here.

"Because you love me?" I asked quietly, brushing my lips against corner of his mouth. I wasn't going to make him say it; honestly, I really didn't care if he did. He'd already showed me in more ways than I could possibly count. Still, messing with him was kind of fun sometimes.

Especially when it actually paid off.

His lips twitched as he gave a tilt of his head, as though weighing his options. "Yeah," he said, so softly it could hardly be called a whisper, as if by keeping his voice down the words might slip beneath his Internal Lesbian Radar. "Because of that."

I opened my mouth to reply, when with what was possibly the worst timing ever, the phone gave a shrill ring, effectively ruining the moment. He gave a groan that I mirrored only inwardly, throwing the blankets from around his waist into a pile on the bed and swinging his legs over the side.

"Don't answer it, it's probably Mikey," he said, appearing not to notice as my eyes raked over his very well-defined, very naked form. "I think the Professor told him about what was going on last night at dinner. I'll call him back later."

"Are you going to tell him? I mean, about me being negative?"

"Do you want me to?"

At first, I felt a flash of unease at the thought of Michael— and therefore Debbie, and therefore most of Pennsylvania— knowing what was essentially our business, mine and Brian's. But then I realized...well, this wasn't like when they'd all found out I'd been raped, or any of the negative shit that had happened since then. Brian and I had been rather withdrawn the night before at dinner, and if what he had said was true— that Ben had told Michael the reason behind this— then that meant that within a matter of hours, Brian would be assuring Michael that I was HIV negative...which meant that the whole family would soon be aware of this. And that, I realized, was a good thing. At least this time, it was something I actually didn't mine being spread around. At least this time, it was good news.

I nodded, getting up to follow Brian into the bathroom. "Yeah. You can tell him. Save us the trouble of telling everyone else." I began brushing my teeth while he relieved himself, joining me at the sink a few moments later.

"So...was it all you imagined it would be?" It took me a moment to catch on to what he was talking about. He'd asked me the same thing, sarcasm dripping from his voice, the first time he'd ever given my inexperienced seventeen-year-old self a blow job. I just remembered doing a lot of wide-eyed gasping and nodding in response then.

"It was great," I said truthfully. "Different, but...great."

He frowned, reaching for the toothpaste. "Different how?"

I shrugged. "Different like...like how we knew it would be."

He nodded, squirting toothpaste onto his brush but not bringing it to his mouth. "Different like...you were still scared," he said softly.

He moved aside to let me rinse my mouth of minty toothpaste, mulling over what to say. "Different like...yeah, I had some— thoughts," I admitted. "I mean, I never would have...felt nervous before, you know? I wouldn't have had all these things going through my head."

"But...you're okay?" he checked.

I caught his eyes in the mirror. "Better than okay," I answered, simply and honestly.

"You'd tell me if you weren't?"

"I promise."

What I'd felt last night in that shower...the fear aspect of it...it had been _nothing _compared to some of the panic attacks I'd had in the past. I hadn't lost myself, even for a moment, inside those thoughts and memories; I'd been too busy drowning myself in Brian.

Those recollections, though, those feelings...I knew we still had a long way to go, but I couldn't help but think that they would always be there, in the back of my head...a part of me, no matter what, not unlike Brian himself. The very first night I was with him, what seemed like forever ago, he'd told me that he wanted me to always remember him, so that no matter who I was ever with, he'd always be there. And he'd succeeded— he was always there, inside me— no matter what I did or who I did it with.

And it was the same with Them, only in a very different way. They were always there, in my head, whenever I was with Brian— hell, whenever I even _thought _about sex— just something I'd gotten used to carrying around inside me. But last night...it was like I'd finally found something that was_ stronger, _something that could bury it and stand over it and thrive.

"Maybe we just have to practice until we get it right again," I said, in my very best seductive tone. It was probably a little rusty, after such a long period of disuse, but luckily, Brian was already predisposed to fall prey to my seduction.

"Good thing we don't mind hard work," he smirked. I rolled my eyes at the typical bad pun, and then he was leaning over and kissing me and everything else failed to matter much. Brian had a talent for making the wrong things in my life right, and now was no different. For all my concern that it wouldn't be the same, and for all Brian's insistence that it wouldn't matter, that it would be enough, either way....

Well, as it turned out, we'd both been right on the mark.

**~. Brian .~**

It was difficult, that bright, clear Sunday morning, to keep my hands off of Justin. Well, even more difficult than usual. Luckily, he didn't seem to mind. I came out of the bathroom just as he was getting dressed, and he ended up sprawled on the bed beneath me, one leg of his jeans on, the other off. I'd meant what I'd told him; I didn't expect anything from him, and certainly didn't want him pushing himself just because of what had happened last night. But it was a different experience, kissing him, knowing where it had the potential of ending up.

There was no denying that the mutual hand-jobs last night in the shower had basically been the highlight of the last six months of our lives, but there was also no pretending that it was the only thing on my mind. That Justin had reclaimed that sexual part of himself was beyond great on so many levels, but it wasn't the only thing we had to be grateful for.

I could think of exactly two instances where I was more relieved than I was last night upon learning of his HIV negative status, and both of them had to do with saving his life. This, though...this ensured that his life could and would continue to get better, that he could live free of health-related burdens carried over from that night, that he could be the thriving individual he once was, and was slowly but steadily becoming again.

It was days like these that made me believe that, someday, maybe even in the near future...we could live every aspect of our lives free of _it _on a daily basis. No sleeping pills, no antidepressants, no fear concerning sex. No crowed-phobia, no frustration, no depressing drawings.

Maybe someday, the experience would be permanently relocated to the back of his mind. Maybe I could fuck him and not wonder if he might confuse me for someone else, mistake my touch with one from his memories. Maybe someday soon, he wouldn't have those thoughts or those feelings when we were together, and I wouldn't have to feel like I'd let him down because it wasn't all it had been before.

In a way, I'd actually lived up to his expectations. After all, he'd been expecting for everything to change, hadn't he? And he'd admitted that it had been different. I mean, we'd fucking known that it might end up being this way, that it would most likely be the case. We'd talked about it enough times, and I'd always assured him that being with him would be enough for me. And it had been. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so...well, _alive. _It had been everything I'd been missing for the last six months.

The problem was, I wasn't the one fighting my memories to be with him. I wasn't the one who so often confused my own boyfriend with the men who'd taken me against my will. I wasn't the one who had all but fallen apart numerous times over my fears that it wouldn't be the same.

I'd never lied to him; I'd told him before that it probably wouldn't be the way it used to be, at least at first. And yet, that resilient little fucker of a voice in the back of my head had never quite given up on the possibility of making it all that it once was. And, okay, so that had only been one hand job...the first in over six months, no less. But it had been what he'd been waiting for, hoping for so desperately, and I'd wanted it to be everything for him.

What was even more maddening about all this was the fact that I felt the exact same way. It had been different for me, too. It was better, in a lot of ways, after going so long without it, relishing it in a completely new way for us. But I'd also been nervous, afraid that he'd lose it and freak out on me at any moment. I'd wondered what the hell I thought I was doing, taking such a risk with him, with his mind, letting myself get so carried away. It had paid off, it was true, but I never would have been so scared to be with him before. I never would have had to watch his face for signs of fear, or wonder if we were taking things too far. I didn't know if we'd ever have that back, that freedom with sex. There were so many rules, now, so many fears and doubts and restrictions where it was concerned.

If that day could indeed exist, however, in some distant future, I was certain that we had taken a great step towards it last night. Feeling him against me, his body so close and wet and warm, his tongue stroking mine, his hand stroking something else...it was like I'd been sinking further and further inside him, inside the haze of arousal and desire that had overcome us.

I'd lain awake last night long after he'd drifted off, listening to him breathe, feeling every rise and fall of his chest against my body. I'd already taken into account what he had felt it was so important to discuss this morning...that he might not be able to do this again right away. It was entirely possible that this was a one-time thing, and that it could be months before it happened again. I'd never tell him that the thought was a little disappointing— he pressured himself enough, without feeling like I was coercing him, too. But I could wait, riding on the memories, just like I had these last six months. Just because we'd done it once, it didn't change anything; his mind, his well-being...they came first, before either of our desires.

Finally, Justin and I managed to tear away from each other long enough for him to go start some breakfast while I checked the answering machine. Just as I'd predicted, it had been Mikey that had interrupted us earlier in bed. I waited while he fired off his questions, demanding to know if everything was okay and what was going on and could he do anything for us, because Ben had told him what was going on and why didn't I tell him Justin was getting tested this week and were we both okay?

Finally, he seemed to run out of breath. Or questions. Either way, he shut the hell up long enough for me to answer.

"He's fine," I assured my best friend, my tone never betraying colossal sensation of relief I felt at the ability to say those words. "He's fine, his tests came back negative."

I heard the sigh of relief even through the phone. "That's great," he said. The thing about Mikey was, he couldn't hide a damn thing he was feeling. If he meant something, you knew it, and right now, his tone was dripping with sincerity. "I'm so fucking glad. Ma's going to be so relieved, too, she's been wanting to ask you for weeks, but Ben said it would be better to let you guys make the first move and tell everyone what was going on yourselves, when it was time."

I found myself sending silent waves of gratitude toward Ben for that. In a group full of people who just naturally butted in without a second thought, it was a relief that at least one person out of the bunch actually knew when to back the fuck off. Of course, it was entirely plausible that this was only because the rest of them hadn't rubbed off on him yet.

"You don't mind if I tell her, do you?" Michael asked. Maybe it was just because I'd known my best friend for so long and so well, but I had a sudden suspicion that he'd already talked to his mother about my and Justin's behavior last night. I was sure, if someone were to check, that they would fine Debbie bustling around her house as we spoke, anxiously awaiting Michael's call. "She'll be so happy to know he's okay."

Actually, I had a feeling Justin would be relieved if Deb had the chance to work out some of her joy over the news on her own before crushing the life out of him in one of her hugs when she saw him next.

"Go ahead," I said, already imagining the shriek of delight that would be piercing the ears of every pedestrian of Pittsburgh this afternoon. "Proceed at your own risk."

"You're not kidding. I think I'll tell her over the phone. At least then I can hold it away from my ear when she starts screaming."

"Tell Vic first. Then he can warn the neighbors."

"He'll be glad to know, too," said Michael, a suddenly sober edge to his voice. "This has kind of put him and Ma on edge around each other."

"Vic and Deb?"

"Yeah. It was kind of like how it was after I started dating Ben. I mean, of course the last thing Uncle Vic wanted was for something to happen to Justin, but...I mean, with Ben, he always respected my choice, you know? And even though Justin...I mean, he didn't really have one...Uncle Vic was really worried and everything, but he said something to Ma about even if Justin _was _positive, it wasn't the absolute end of everything, and Ma got all upset and they had a fight."

"Shit," I said softly. Apparently Justin and I weren't the only ones who could keep things to ourselves. I hadn't picked up a hint of any of this, though I had a feeling that was deliberate. Hurting or not, neither Deb nor Vic would have wanted to cause Justin and me any more stress than we were already dealing with. "Well, tell them to quit bitching at each other. Justin's fine, everything's alright."

"I'll tell them," Michael promised. "Look, we're all getting together this week...Woody's, Wednesday night. You and Justin can come, of course, but last night I got the idea, if he was negative— which he is— maybe we could all come over afterward or something, celebrate? You know, if Justin didn't feel like going out? We can order a pizza and have a few drinks."

"I'll talk to him," I said, but made no further promises. I couldn't really see Justin loving the idea of some kind of big celebration where the theme was basically, _'Congratulations! You're not infected with a life-threatening disease after being forced into unprotected sex against your will!' _However, he might like the idea of a night with the guys, just because. Though I also couldn't really imagine he'd take to the idea of everyone congregating here after Woody's just for his benefit, given the problems he'd had with it before now.

Michael and I hung up soon after that, but my mind remained on thoughts of his invitation. The one that he'd extended to both me and Justin. It had been months since the disaster that had been our outing at Woody's with the guys, where Justin had ended up freaking out in a bathroom stall after refusing to allow me to accompany him. He was still just starting to get used to life outside the loft again. We'd gone out to dinner a few times, and he'd gone out with his mother and sister that one evening a few weeks ago, but even then, he'd struggled with his nerves.

On the other hand, he'd actually started integrating himself back into life at PIFA, going to classes instead of juggling the home-arrangement he'd worked out with them all those months ago. He'd benefited greatly from their accommodations, but his mind was in a better place now...or at least, it was getting there. We'd also worked out a mutually advantageous agreement— he called me every day after his classes, both to reassure me that he was okay, and also to soothe his still slightly frayed nerves from being out of the loft and around so many people for so long. His classes were typically small and relatively quiet, though, nothing unruly or resembling a bar or club scene to send him into a panic.

And then there was the other end of the scale....something he wanted, not quite as much as he desired sex, but wanted even more than he wanted to really get out again.

He'd been dropping hints lately— as in great, boulder-sized hints with the subtlety of sirens and neon lights— about staying home alone. Ever since he'd been asked to babysit Gus those two days a few weeks ago, it had obviously been on his mind. Twice, I'd very nearly opened my mouth on impulse and asked him if he thought he might want to do it. And twice, the words had died in my throat.

Try as I might, whenever I would mull the prospect over in my mind, I couldn't help the other thoughts and images that got mixed in. I couldn't help the memories of Justin standing on the ledge of the rooftop, or sketching his own corpse, silently pleading for death. And I knew things were different now, knew, in my heart of hearts, that I had nothing to worry about by leaving him here. But then I'd look at him, and think what it'd be like not to have him, not to be able to kiss him, or watch his eyes light up with inspiration, or just feel him breathing next to me as he slept, and it would kill me. And feeling that, how could I possibly take that risk?

But, what if he decided he was just going to do whatever the hell he wanted, whether I liked it or not? The one time he had tried, months ago now— right after I'd established the rule that he was, under no circumstances, to be left alone in the loft— I'd threatened to simply stay home from work that day. But at this point, he was either going along with it all for his own comfort, or mine...not just because I made him. Because honestly, if he came up to me and told me he was going to stay home alone one day, and that was final, I probably wouldn't put up much of a fight. But either he was freaked out by the idea of being home alone, or he'd decided to indulge me and let the trust between us redevelop on its own. I wasn't complaining about either one, really.

So for now, I kept the alarm system's code from him. I drove him to Daphne's and his mother's in the mornings when he didn't have school, though I was sure he'd noticed that I was slacking off on some of the other preventative measures I'd taken for so long. For instance, I'd finally taken the numerous stashes of medication from around the loft and integrated them all into the bottles on the counter. He was rarely far from my sight anyway inside the loft, and besides...I really did trust him not to take advantage of the situation. He'd moved on from that part of his life, thank God. I was as sure in my trust for him as I was sure that Debbie was shrieking her head off right about now in her joy over his HIV negative status.

I knew. I mean, I _knew. _It was irrefutable, at this point. No doubts, no question...it was just _there— _the remarkable truth.

Justin was going to be fine.

**~. Justin .~**

I decided to start some eggs and toast for breakfast while Brian returned Michael's call. I couldn't quite make out what he was saying from the bedroom, but I imagined I could hear the word _negative _carrying clearly across the loft. Negative. I was fucking HIV negative. It was almost unbelievable, especially when I thought about, for instance, Vic, or even Ben. Of course, I wasn't sure of the details of how they'd both come to be positive, but I could only assume that somehow, their safety-nets had failed them. Whether it had been a condom that had broken or trust in a lover, the protection they'd been counting on hadn't held up. I'd never even had that, though. For me, the risk had been utterly unwilling, no net to catch me, nothing to fall back on. How was it that, with the risk I'd been subjected to, _I _was negative, but they were not?

The one time I'd asked Brian to fuck me raw, claiming that he wasn't just anyone to be allowed that, he'd pointed out that that was probably what Ben had figured about the guy who'd given it to him. I didn't know whether Ben or Vic had been infected because of faulty protection, or a lack of it altogether, but either way, it had been just this one fucked up moment for them. One guy, or at least, I assumed as much. Of course, that was all it took, but you had to admit, having a whole handful of sleazy guys who'd probably never practiced safe sex in their life fuck you bareback was about as risky as you could get without actually going to one of those fucked up conversion parties, where the entire point was to pass on the disease.

I guess I owed my gratitude to luck, and to modern medicine for post-exposure meds. Whatever it was that had saved me, I wasn't complaining. I had to admit, though, after the hell I'd gone through just waiting for the fucking results— not even touching on what it would have been like if I'd actually been sick— I had a new appreciation for the strength of people like Ben and Vic. I'd been so fucking lucky...everything could have so easily gone the other way. I didn't even want to imagine what it had been like for them, terrified out of their minds for months, just as I had been, only without the relief of the good news of safety waiting at the finish line.

Sunday was mostly a lazy day. Except for my and Brian's short conversation in the bathroom concerning what we'd done the night before, neither of us brought it up. We had breakfast, and I played on the computer for a while until he said he needed to check his mail. We were a little more touchy than usual, I guess...kissing whenever we were within three feet of each other, casually groping each other as we walked by...but we didn't really try anything too heavy.

Monday morning, like all Monday mornings, marked the date of yet another therapy session. One would think, after several solid months of spilling my innermost thoughts once a week to someone who was still, in most aspects, a stranger to me— that there would be pretty much nothing that could still make me flush in her presence.

Turns out, telling your therapist that you'd sort of had sex with your boyfriend over the weekend didn't quite fall into the category of "pretty much nothing." I could feel my face burning a little, even as something like pride seemed to radiate from inside me when she deemed what we'd done as 'remarkable progress' and 'a great achievement.'

Brian, for his part, did absolutely nothing to help me out, and let me take the reins in telling Kathy what had happened. I'd never really had a problem talking about sex before— I could still clearly picture my mother's face when I'd made my little 'I Like Dick' speech to the therapist she'd brought me to after I'd come out— but it was more the _way _we were talking about it with Kathy. Not like a couple of friends over drinks, and I wasn't saying it to shock. It felt more like I was talking to an aunt I hadn't seen in a while, but who knew entirely too much about my life.

But all in all, I supposed it could have been worse. Hell, it _had _been worse for weeks_—_months—after first starting therapy. And at least this time, I could tell the tale with a smile plucking at the corners of my mouth, and Brian's hand in mine...not for support, but just because. This time, I wasn't going through a fucking box of Kleenex, and I wasn't reliving the worst night of my life for what Brian and Kathy seemed to think was my own good. Instead, I was telling her that I'd actually managed not to freak out, that things had changed as much as they'd stayed the same. I was telling her that, for once, everything was just...right.

In general, therapy with Kathy was a lot less— hellish— these days. We'd gotten through most of the tougher shit, the parts that belonged in the past, and now we were mostly focusing on my present. She still liked to know how I felt on a day-to-day basis, and I was supposed to talk to her about any out-of-the-ordinary upsets I suffered during the week. I was over the worst of it, that was for sure. Mostly, she tried to help me work through things like my fear of people and crowds, my lingering feelings, both over what happened and the people involved, and the thing inside my head that so often seemed to associate sexual activity with what had happened to me.

Things were getting better though, that was undeniable. I wasn't such an emotional wreck after therapy anymore, and Brian had even started dropping me off at Daphne's and my mom's every Monday and going into work. I had to admit, if I'd known before how beneficial therapy would have proven itself to be, I probably wouldn't have fought Brian on it so much at first.

"So," he began, later on that night, over our Thai dinner. "Did I tell you Michael invited us out this week?"

I tried to blame the little catch in my breath on the fact that I'd just bitten into something extremely spicy. "When?" I asked. Better yet, "Where?"

Brian shrugged, an apparently casual gesture, but his averted gaze gave him away. "The guys are all heading to Woody's Wednesday night."

I could feel the usual doubts, the usual fears poking and prodding at the edges of my mind. It was insistent enough that I couldn't quite summon up feelings of shame for taking the easy way out.

"Shit...I kind of already have plans with Daphne on Wednesday," I said, which was perfectly true, cowardly or not. I'd called her with news of my test results on Sunday morning, after Brian had finished talking with Michael, and she'd invited me over to celebrate. Well, partly to celebrate that, and partly because I'd also told her about what had happened between me and Brian, and she'd wanted to squeal with me in person and hear all about it. Unfortunately, she had a paper due, and she'd waited until the last minute start it, leaving her with a deadline she was working her ass off to meet. She'd predicted to finish on Tuesday night, leaving her free on Wednesday.

"But you go," I added hastily. "Go out. Have fun with the guys."

He swallowed his mouthful of food before answering. "'Fun' isn't exactly the word I'd use to describe them," he joked, "but that's fine. You want me to pick you up on my way home, or...?"

"Sure," I agreed, unable to help but feel like a kid being chauffeured around because he couldn't do anything or go anywhere without supervision. Okay, so it wasn't as though I would have relished the idea of walking from the loft to Daphne's, even if neither of our fears did play into it in any way, but since they did— well, I couldn't change how I felt about it, nor was I really sure of anyway to change the situation, so I supposed I was just going to have to deal with it, like I had been for the last several months.

After dinner, Brian helped clear the table while I rinsed the few dishes we'd used and put them in the dishwasher. I smiled when I felt his arms slip easily around my torso, his hands running down my arms, stopping just short of my hands, beneath the steady trickle of water.

"Leave it," he whispered into my ear, right before pressing a kiss to it that made me shudder.

"Why? Got something better in mind to do?" I teased, grinning when he bit my earlobe playfully. I tried to twist away, but he pulled me back against his chest, trapping me between his body and the counter.

"Yeah." His breath was hot against my skin as he spoke into it, his voice low and husky. Then, he dropped the sexy, seductive routine completely, straightening up and loosening his hold on me just a little. "I thought we could do some scrap-booking. Or maybe play some bingo."

I laughed, and I could feel the evidence of his own amusement rumbling in his chest against my back. "Make it strip bingo, and you're on."

I felt him push aside the fabric of my shirt so that his lips could meet my shoulder, trailing kisses up my neck. "Well, we have played strip poker before."

"About that..." I began casually, hissing in pleasure as his lips found that spot behind my ear he knew I loved. "I cheated."

He didn't slow down, his lips pressing kisses wherever they could reach, his hands running up my torso, beneath my shirt. I found myself shutting off the sink, reaching for the towel, drying my hands.

"Huh?"

"I cheated. I discarded all my high cards...lost on purpose...." I let my head fall back with a moan, letting him lick and suck at my bared neck.

I felt his low laugh vibrate against my skin. "I know."

"You _know?"_

"I'll admit I kick ass at cards, but there was no fucking way I won that many games in a row by chance. Especially since you never ended up showing anything higher than an eight...."

"You never said anything."

"Justin, you were throwing off your clothes as fast as you could get rid of them. Why the hell would I have said something?"

"Got you to fuck me, didn't it?" I whispered, turning in his arms so that we were finally face to face. Our eyes met, the air between us charged with electricity.

"Yeah...guess we both got what we wanted."

"Guess we did."

It was as though one of us had suddenly yelled _kiss me. _Our lips seemed to crash together of their own accord, tender but passionate. He backed me gently against the counter, his hand cupping the side of my face as he plunged his tongue into my mouth, and all I could think about was how much I loved this. No matter what else happened, even if our worlds went to shit around us, I still got to kiss Brian Kinney. I still had this, and I was the only one who did.

It wasn't the first time we'd made out since what had happened between us in that shower, two nights ago now. But we hadn't let things get any further than that so far. I wondered, in that little place in the back of my mind that held all my most desperate hopes and dearest wishes, if this might be the time we just let go a little, and let things happen as they may. I couldn't imagine wanting to stop this, so maybe we would just...keep going? Oh God, what if it happened again, right here, tonight? A shiver of excitement ran down my spine at just the thought.

At first, I wasn't entirely sure if the sensation that hit me was anticipation or nerves flaring up. It was a moment of mutual frustration with each other's shirts before I realized that it was both, the two pieces of fabric hitting the floor almost simultaneously.

It aggravated me to no end, that hesitance. I mean, I'd already _done _it. I'd already allowed it to happen, and I still felt just as scared, just as unsure as I had before. Maybe it was like jumping off the high dive for people who were terrified of heights: the fear just never really went away. It could be the best experience of your life, and yet...each time, that fear would be back, putting a price on that moment of freedom that was just a little too steep.

I let Brian press me against the counter, let him angle my head and kiss me, let him do whatever he wanted. The first few times we'd kissed after Saturday night, I got the impression that he was holding back a little, so I'd done my best to assure him that it was okay, letting him in and kissing him back with unmistakable fervor. I wasn't going to break, and I wanted him to see that.

It was hard, during moments like these with him, not to want it...not to _crave _it. It was so fucking hard to watch him in the shower, and not step inside with him, held back by that little voice inside my head. It was heavenly torture to lie beside him at night and feel him press his naked cock ever so lightly into the crack of my ass, curling around me, because I couldn't not want more.

So maybe that played a part in it all. Or maybe it was because even here inside this kitchen, there were so many memories attached. The time he'd picked me up, swung a giggly, dangerously drunken me over his shoulder, set me down on the counter, and sucked me off right then and there. The time we'd fucked right here on the floor. The time I'd tried to ride him in that chair and ended up nearly giving us both concussions after we fell. The time he'd offered his ass to me on that counter, only to burst out laughing when it turned out I was too short to actually do anything to him. He'd teased me about that one for weeks.

So maybe it was the memories, the way it was just so easy to slip back inside the lives of those people we'd been back then, and let ourselves get carried away, in each other, in the moment. Or maybe it was just pure want, pure _need. _Maybe that was enough of an explanation as to why both of us were suddenly standing in the middle of the kitchen in our underwear, me on the counter and him between my legs.

It was then, with the warmth of his lips on my neck, and his hands on my thighs, that the possibility of his mouth on me first occurred. Neither of us had given a blow job to the other in so long, and I wished I could remember exactly what it felt like. It made me uneasy, though. While before, the differences between blow jobs and hand jobs hadn't seemed like that big a deal, they were to me now, particularly when it came to giving them. And though I knew Kathy wouldn't approve of my negativity (her favorite extremely irritating thing to do, whenever I expressed any opinion along the lines of 'I can't do that,' was to make me correct my sentence with the phrase 'I can't do that _yet'), _I was almost completely certain that it was beyond whatever mental or emotional capabilities I had at the moment.

My breath caught in my throat as Brian's hand crept steadily up my thigh, as though testing whether or not I was okay with it. In answer, I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him to me.

"Slow down," he whispered as my fingers closed around the top of his boxers, tugging at them. I could feel something not altogether pleasant building inside me, that feeling of just being out of control, even if it was only control over myself. I was grabbing for more, needing it and wanting it and it was all just spiraling, happening and confusing me. It was like driving a car, wanting only to go faster and faster, loving the thrill, and then suddenly trying to spin around a corner and realizing that you'd given up your control for the rush. "Remember what Kathy said," he reminded me.

_Slow down, take stock. _Right. She'd said that next time I was in a position where I wanted to try something sexual but could feel myself starting to lose it, the best thing I could do was just to slow down, take a moment to remind myself of where I was, who I was with, and that my voice would be listened to. She said it might help to 'stay tuned into details.' Things like Brian's voice, certain ways he touched me...stuff I could consciously take into account to help me separate what was happening from my memories.

Okay. I could do that. I could concentrate on the delicious sounds Brian was making, so unique and sexy, making my dick grow even harder beneath the fabric of my boxers. I could focus on the way his hand rubbed soothing little circles into my upper thigh. I could relish the softness of his lips, the way he tasted, the way he gently tangled his fingers in my hair, and let all the rest of it fall away. It lingered, as it always did, at the back of my head, but right here and now, Brian was all that mattered.

My fingers strayed...down over his shoulders, his sides...until they once again reached his underwear. I wondered what it would do to me to sink to my knees right here and now, sliding the barely-there fabric over his thighs and freeing his perfect cock, hard and wet and ready for me to suck.

I gave the underwear a tug, sliding them down until they dropped to the floor. He stepped out of them without breaking our kiss, and I didn't falter. I felt my heart slamming against my ribcage...partly from excitement, partly from fear...and then he was helping me off the counter to stand in front of it, our mouths clashing together still.

My back was against the counter again as I held him to me. I took his hand in mine, guiding it down from my hip to rest at the band of my underwear. Never separating for longer than it took to draw air, he took the hint, sliding that last piece of fabric off so that we were both completely naked.

I broke our kiss here, taking a deep breath. Could I do this? Was I okay? I could feel mingled nerves and arousal coursing through me, not entirely sure which was more powerful.

"Justin—"

I kissed him before he could go on, my hand around his neck, holding him to me. I could feel his hand on my hip, steadying me, securing me to him. I moaned a little and pressed my body into his, relishing the friction. Slowly, I slid a hand down in between us, trying my best to keep from shaking, and wrapped it around his dick. He gave a hiss of pleasure, his chest heaving against mine until his own hand slipped in between our bodies, forcing us a little further apart. I gasped as his fingers found my cock and stroked.

"Brian...God...." Fuck, I loved this, being with him...letting myself be overcome by the sensations he invoked in me. He leaned in to kiss me, sweet and soft, our gasps mingling in the air between us. It was better than anything...everything....

I squeezed my eyes shut and just let go.

**~. Brian .~ **

There was nothing worse than that feeling I got when Justin had one of his flashbacks.

Imagine kissing the person you love, imagine holding them and touching them and thinking everything was fine, that you were making them feel good...and then suddenly being shoved at and being told to stop and having to watch the fear play across their face, knowing where their head and just been and the reason behind it.

That was what it felt like. Every time. Standing in that kitchen, wondering if we were minutes of pleasure away from Justin's second orgasm in over six months, it felt as gut-wrenching as ever.

"Justin."

He took a deep breath to steady himself, then blinked up at me, finally releasing my wrist from his grip. I was relieved to note that at least his eyes were quite dry. We just stared at each other for a moment, each waiting for the other to speak first.

I blew out a deep breath, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around him. "A memory." It wasn't a question.

He shook his head. "Just...a flash of something. I'm okay."

"You stopped me," I pointed out. It had been a split-second thing. One minute, he'd been kissing me, sighing my name in what sounded like bliss, and the next, he'd been grabbing my hand to stop me from touching him. "When have you ever stopped me because you were okay?"

"It was nothing, Brian."

"Tell me."

"Brian...."

"You're supposed to tell me these things, remember? We're supposed to work on them."

"I don't _know, _okay?" he snapped, letting out a frustrated sigh, pushing past me. "Fuck."

I leaned against the stretch of counter he'd just vacated, feeling a bit of relief set in. He was frustrated, yes, but he wasn't panicking. He wasn't losing it on me. This was good. Well, not good, but manageable, anyway. We could deal with this one.

"I'm trying," he said, his voice low and free of emotional cracks as he paced the floor in front of me. "Okay, I'm...it's still hard sometimes, being— like this— with you. Things still get, like, mixed up or something, in my head, you know? It's like the wires get crossed inside me."

I pressed my lips together, nodding. I didn't get it the way he did, true, but I _understood _it.

"What about what Kathy said? About trying to separate things consciously or whatever?"

Finally, he stopped pacing long enough to stand, frowning, in one spot and look at me. "Well...I have been. It's just— a lot to deal with, when we try things. It's a lot for me to take, and it's like it all just starts spinning out of my control and then...."

"Then you flash back," I completed grimly.

"Well...yeah."

"Come here," I said softly. His eyes questioning, he wandered back over in front of me. "It's this that freaks you out, isn't it?" I asked, gesturing between us, at our completely bare bodies.

He shrugged. "Only sometimes."

"When?"

"When we're...I don't know...when we're kissing, sometimes. But it's not even every time, it's just...."

"When there's a possibility of going further."

His frown deepened. "Actually...yeah."

That made sense. He was fine, in those moments we passed each other on our way in or out of the shower. He was fine when we kissed goodnight. He was fine when we got dressed in the mornings. The only time he _wasn't _fine was during those times when there was a distinct possibility of taking things further. When we got so caught up in each other and what we were doing that there was a chance things might escalate, when he let go and opened himself not only to what I was doing to him, but what had been done to him before.

"But...I _want _to go further," he admitted. "Like the other day."

"We will," I said, taking his hand and pulling him gently back against my body. "Just not tonight. We're just kissing...that's all it is."

He nodded again, and I reached out to brush my fingers across his cheek, guiding his lips to mine. He caught my fingers in his and held them against his face, even as we broke apart.

"Don't stop," he whispered, not even opening his eyes, and so I leaned back down to kiss him, his hand still entwined with mine.

"I'm holding on," I promised, squeezing his fingers reassuringly, giving him an anchor...giving us both one.

"So am I," he said, and kissed me.

~.~

In the end, a night at Woody's with the guys sounded like a pretty good idea, so I called Michael back and told him I was coming. Through my best friend, I spread the word about Justin's plans with Daphne, and the guys ended up deciding to reschedule their night at the loft for sometime when he could actually be there.

It was about an hour before I was supposed to drop Justin off at Daphne's place when he came to me, clutching his cell phone and looking slightly distressed.

"What's up?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at his distinctly troubled expression.

"Daphne just called," he explained. "She's not done with her paper yet, and it's due soon, so she really has to get it done. Which means...."

"That she can't afford distractions." In the form of her best friend, for instance.

"Right."

I nodded, clicking through a few cards on my game of computer Solitaire. "So...do you want me to stay home?" I offered.

He bit his lip, looking even more nervous now. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, he let his words out in a rush, "Actually, I was hoping I could stay here by myself tonight." He pressed his lips together, waiting for my reaction.

"By yourself?" I repeated once I'd deciphered the speedy outburst of words, feeling a little knot forming in my stomach.

He nodded. "Yeah. Brian, look...you know you can trust me," he said bluntly, a note of desperation plainly audible in his voice. "I wouldn't...I wouldn't do anything. I don't even think about...you know...anymore. You know it's different...I'm better now."

I looked at him, really looked, taking in the wide, sincere blue eyes, the way his teeth sank into his bottom lip as he prepared himself for what I would say.

I swallowed back my instinctive urge to refuse him. I had to stop thinking like this. I had to stop thinking about all the things I stood to lose, and had to start thinking about all the things I was keeping Justin from gaining. Kathy herself had said that he needed to start reasserting his independence and taking back his life. Just like Justin did on a daily basis, I had to stop concentrating on my fears and start focusing on the positive. Justin was here, and he was here for a reason...he'd fought for the privilege of being alive, of being as mentally healthy as he was. He'd done it for a reason, and the result was that he was no longer the person who drew sketches of his own corpse, or would stop at nothing to end his own pain. He was a different person now. A stronger person, in a completely different state of mind.

"You're doing it no matter what I say, aren't you?" I would expect nothing less from him.

His expression was somewhat apologetic, but he nodded nonetheless.

I smiled, weakly but sincerely. "Then what choice do I have?" I asked, sighing and sitting back in my chair, waiting for it.

I wasn't disappointed.

A smile was slowly spreading across his face. "Really?" he asked, as though hardly daring to believe it.

I tilted my head in affirmation. "I won't stand in your way, if you want to do it," I promised.

His glee was more than evident, even before he threw himself in my lap, kissing me soundly, muttering words of thanks against my lips for trusting him. And I did. Trust him, that was. Despite it all...or maybe _because_ of it all, everything we'd gone through these last few months, I was finally at a point where I trusted him with his own life.

"What time do you want me to be back?" I asked. It felt a little weird to basically ask him how long I had permission to stay out; I hadn't asked a question like that since I was about sixteen. But this _was _basically the first time he was being left completely on his own in months, and I didn't want to overwhelm him the first time.

"Whenever you feel like it," he said, shrugging. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

It wasn't that I doubted it. It was just that...well, I was fucking nervous. No, I wasn't regretting my decision, and no, it wasn't a trust issue. It was my own issue. It was the fact that I loved him so much, the idea of anything at all happening to him— especially after all the pain we'd already gone through— killed me.

Which was why I hesitated, standing at the door, giving him a thorough goodbye-and-good-luck kiss that was as much for pleasure as it was to prolong the moment where I'd have to walk out that door and leave him.

"Go," he finally said, laughing the word against my lips. "We can't stay here and make out all night."

"Why not?"

He laughed again, kissing me once more before twisting out of my grip. "Go."

I held onto him for just a second more, forcing him to meet my eyes for one final, silent goodbye. Really, it wasn't as though I would be gone that long; I was apart from him for a longer period of time every day at work. It was just that...there was no one to look after him now. No one to make sure he was okay.

"Keep the phone close," I said, finally sliding the door open.

"I promise." He smiled, his eyes sparkling with happiness. I knew it wasn't eagerness to get rid of me, but rather joy at finally gaining back some of the freedom he'd lost as a result of things. But still, I never thought I'd see the day when Justin _wanted _me to leave his side. I'd just opened my mouth to remind him that he'd better get something to eat if he got hungry, before remembering that it was usually Justin ordering in for us now, anyway.

"I left some money for take-out on the counter," I said instead. "You know, if you don't feel like cooking."

He nodded, kissing me again as he practically shoved me out the door. "Got it. Thanks. Now _go—_the guys are waiting for you."

I had a final glimpse of a bright grin and blond hair before the door was sliding shut, effectively cutting us off from each other. I rested a hand on the door for a moment, then turned around, letting out a deep breath as the door slowly rose out of site, the elevator whisking me away.

**~. Justin .~**

My smile faded as I shut the door behind Brian, feeling a little guilty for basically shoving him out the door. But if I hadn't pushed, he'd never have left. And he needed this. We both did. He needed to go out and have some fun without worrying about being too late to pick me up from my babysitters' houses, and I needed to have this one night, just to claim as mine. And both of us needed this gesture of trust, needed to know that it wouldn't be betrayed, on either side.

I wasn't sure quite what to do with myself. I was looking at an entire evening alone.

I could paint. Or sketch. Or watch TV. Surf the net. I could read. I could do anything I wanted. Only it was somehow different than usual— I was alone. I'd earned Brian's trust, and he believed in me enough to give me this.

It was strange, not having someone in the next room to talk to if I wanted. I hadn't been so truly alone in a while. I decided to play on the computer, since I didn't usually get the chance when Brian was around. He was a total technology hog.

I pulled up the list of games available on the computer, deciding to try my hand at chess. Brian and I would play together sometimes; he had an old set that Vic had given him years ago, before he and I had even met. I'd found it once, and upon catching me admiring the elaborately carved pieces, he had challenged me to a game. I'd been annihilated the first few times, but after a while, I'd started getting better. To this day, I'd never beaten him at a game, though, and I wondered if computer chess might be a good way to practice.

Or maybe it was just a very good way to get frustrated. After being effortlessly destroyed in three games and losing six prominent pieces in a forth, I decided to give up for the time being and check my mail instead.

"Rigged piece of shit," I muttered to no one in particular, clicking away from the damn game that I was now convinced was fixed to let the computer win.

Forgetting completely that it was Brian who was signed in and not me, I mechanically clicked the little mail icon at the top of the web page. However, the slew of new emails was lacking in chain jokes sent from Daph and coupons from art stores and PIFA's newsletter, instead housing several from Michael and people at Vanguard, which brought me to the conclusion that this could only be Brian's email I was staring at.

I was about to sign out so that I could sign back in under my own account, when something caught my eye. One of the emails, sent from an address I didn't recognize, the subject line simply reading _Your Request. _

I wasn't sure why I found this so odd...maybe it was simply because it was the only address in the batch that wasn't from Michael and didn't contained the word _Vanguard. _My curiosity getting the best of me, I clicked it open.

_Mr. Kinney, _

_Your fee has been accepted, and I have taken the precautionary measures to ensure that matters of our exchanges stay confidential. That said, I would consider it ill-advised to continue conversing over the medium of the internet. Please wait for a phone call detailing a place we can meet in person._

That was it. No signature. Nothing.

The message itself was more than a little suspicious, leaving me confused and with a knot of unease in the pit of my stomach. I'd been putting up with Brian's weird, unexplained phone calls for months now, and had almost managed to convince myself that if it were serious— if something was really, truly wrong— then he would let me know.

Now, I wasn't so sure. Brian was paying fees— fees for something that had to remain confidential, which meant it was a bad idea to continue the exchange over the internet. Something was going on. Something had to be.

I had half a mind to call Brian up right then and demand to know what it was. We were partners after all, weren't we? I deserved to know if something was going on in his life. I mean, why _wouldn't _he tell me about it? What reason could he possibly have for keeping me in the dark?

Well, I supposed I hadn't exactly done a great job of being completely honest with him in the past. But that scared me even more, if only because of the nature of the secrets I'd hidden from him. And why had I done that? Because I didn't want to hurt him? Because I didn't want him to hurt _me, _by giving him a reason to see me in a lesser light? What if he was hiding from me for the same reason?

My cell phone— kept close, just as I'd promised Brian— began ringing and vibrating across the desk. I hastily clicked the little "Save As New" button on the email message, then exited the window, snatching up my phone.

"Brian?"

"Hey," my boyfriend's voice greeted me, warm and comforting. How could he be hiding something from me? How could he, for all intents and purposes, be _lying _to me? "How's it going?"

"You've only been gone for twenty minutes."

"So?"

I felt the corners of my mouth twitch despite myself. He couldn't. He couldn't be hiding something from me— at least, not something serious. So, he didn't tell me absolutely everything. I didn't tell him everything either, but that didn't mean I was deliberately keeping him in the dark about things he had a right to know about. I had to be overreacting, right? He'd proven to me tonight that he trusted me. He'd tell me if it were something serious.

"I'm fine," I assured him. Still, the question hung on the tip of my tongue, just waiting for me to open my mouth and ask him about the email. "Brian?"

But didn't he deserve the benefit of the doubt? Didn't I trust _him?_

I did, of course. I trusted him with my life. If Brian was keeping a secret, it had to be for a good reason. Or at least, what he considered to be a good reason. The only thing I could even imagine him hiding would be something to do with him specifically, something that had happened or was happening to him that he didn't want me to worry about and that wouldn't directly concern me or anyone else. He wouldn't hide it if it was something to do with our friends, or something that could hurt me by being kept in the dark.

"Yeah?"

"You're...I mean...you're okay, right?"

"Me?" he sounded surprised, and I could practically see that eyebrow crawling up his forehead as he blew out a stream of smoke, stomping out his cigarette on the sidewalk outside of Woody's. "Fine, why?"

"I mean, in general? You're okay?"

"Justin, what's going on?"

"Nothing," I said, letting out a sigh. He had to be okay. He'd tell me if anything else was wrong in our lives, or our friends' lives, or if it concerned me. Which left him, and there was nothing I could detect about his life that had changed inexplicably. "Nothing. Everything's fine."

"You sure?"

No. "Yeah."

We hung up, his promise of "later" hanging in the air. He couldn't hide from me forever. Whatever was going on in his life, however big or small, would be revealed sooner or later. I'd give him his time, if he needed it. Maybe before, I would have demanded to know everything, but things were different now.

I knew firsthand, after all, what it was like to have a secret that was yours, and yours alone.

**~. Brian .~**

It took all of my willpower to keep myself from calling Justin every ten minutes.

"Let him breathe, Brian," said Emmett, taking a sip of his disgustingly fruity-looking drink. "I'm sure he's fine."

"He's doing so much better," Michael agreed fervently. "Why don't you just let him enjoy it?"

They were right, of course. I knew I should back off and let Justin have some space. All the same, I doubted either of them would feel quite the same way if it were the Professor or Theodore in Justin's place.

I ended up having a pretty good time with them all, though, considering the circumstances. I only called Justin twice the whole evening, and even managed not to freak out when it nearly went to voice mail the second time before he answered, out of breath from having dashed across the loft to get to his phone.

"Hey, Brian," said Michael, catching up to me on the way to my car. I'd just seen him duck into Ben's, so I was somewhat surprised to see him now jogging toward me through the parking lot. "Brian, I have a favor to ask."

"I'm flattered, really, but a threesome with you and the Professor isn't exactly at the top of my to-do list."

He rolled his eyes. "That's not it. I was going to ask if you could give these to Justin for me?"

He shoved a stack of what seemed to be comics into my hands.

"You're not trying to recruit him into Geekdom, are you?" I scoffed, grimacing at just the thought. "I mean, your boyfriend's already halfway there, but leave mine out of it, will you?"

"Asshole. I thought he might want to look at them...you know, the designs and stuff," he explained. At my blank look, he continued. "You've seen those drawings he was doing, right?"

"The superheroes?" I asked, wondering how the hell Michael knew about those. "Yeah, I've seen them."

"Well, I was in the store the other day, and I saw this comic that was done in almost the exact same style as Justin's. It just made me think of him, you know? I saw those drawings of his a while ago, and I thought if he was interested in making something out of them...."

Suddenly I caught on to where this was going. "I'll give them to him," I promised, but made no further guarantees. Did Michael _know _what those fucking drawings of Justin's were about? He said he'd seen them, but did he really _get _it?

"Great. Thanks," he said, evidently satisfied. "Well, Ben's waiting."

"See you."

"Yeah...bye!" He kissed me, and then was gone, racing across the parking lot back to the Professor. I turned and climbed into my jeep, setting the comics on the passenger seat.

Justin was sketching when I got home, music blasting from the stereo. He hit the 'pause' button when he saw me, setting aside his sketch.

"Hey," I said, my eyes raking over him, performing a mental checklist and coming to the conclusion that he was fine.

"Hey," he said, smiling at me. It was somewhat weaker than a full-wattage one, but I chalked that up to him being on edge after being alone for so long.

"So...how was it?" I asked, taking a seat beside him and drawing him in for a kiss. He responded, but didn't melt into me like he usually did when I kissed him like this.

"Fine," he answered against my lips, his hand against my cheek. "Good. Really good."

"Mmm...I'm glad," I smiled, nudging his nose playfully with mine. I pressed my lips back to his, relishing the flavor of him; he pulled away, though, when I tried to deepen the kiss. "You okay?" I frowned.

He nodded, his eyes falling to the small stack of comics in my hand. "What are those?"

"Oh, they're from Michael. He said you might want to look at the designs, since you've been drawing those sketch stories and everything."

"What am I supposed to do with them?"

I shrugged. "No idea. It's Michael," I said, as if that explained everything. And really, it kind of did.

He nodded, seeming to accept this. He looked tense, a hesitance settling over him that concerned me. I got the feeling he wanted to say something, but wasn't quite sure how to phrase it, or even if he should.

"You okay?" I asked, rubbing his arm in a familiar gesture meant to soothe.

He nodded, but I still got that impression that he was holding back. He let out a deep breath, eyes fixed on the stack of comics in his lap. "Brian? Do you...are you alright?'

I frowned at the question. He'd asked me the same thing earlier that night when I'd called him for the first time, only around twenty minutes after I'd left. I'd brushed it off then, but was now seriously starting to wonder what this was about.

"Well, my car payment is a little high, and work's been a bitch lately, but otherwise, life is grand," I said, only a hint of sarcasm tinging my tone. "Why?"

Again, he seemed to pull inside himself, as though an internal restraint was preventing him from saying what he wanted to say. "No reason."

"Yes, there is," I said at once, letting my arm fall from the back of the couch to his shoulders. "What's going on?"

He shrugged, biting his lip.

"Justin," I said warningly.

He sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "It's...I found something," he confessed. "On your email."

Immediately, as if someone had thrown a switch, I felt something inside me clench, my heart-rate speeding up. "What? Why were you in my email?" Normally, I probably wouldn't have cared. I had nothing to hide from him, except...well, right now, I did.

"It was an accident," he said hastily. "I was trying to check mine, and yours was there instead. But then...there was an email there, and...I kind of opened it."

Shit. _Shit. _I didn't even have to ask which one. It was the one I'd been expecting, but hadn't yet gotten a chance to check for, I was sure. _The _email, of fucking course.

"_Why?"_ I asked, exercising every bit of restraint I possessed, so that the words came out sounding choked and forced.

He shrugged, looking apologetic, but he didn't back down. "I was curious," he said simply. "You've been acting weird for _months, _Brian."

Okay, well...he did have a point there. But that was still really no excuse to go snooping through other people's email. "And what did it say?" I asked, more concerned, at the moment, about what he'd seen than the reason he'd seen it.

"Well, it said...that your fee had been accepted, and that measures had been taken to make sure whatever you were doing stayed private. And that it wasn't a good idea to keep talking through email, so whoever it was from was going to call you so you could meet somewhere."

Shit. Okay, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but still. It was bad. How the hell was I going to get out of this one? How could I justify keeping this from him?

"Oh, that," I said, trying to sound as if it were nothing more than a daily horoscope that I'd had delivered. I even tried to laugh it off. "That was just some client."

"Right. It's fucking _always _a client, Brian," he said, sounding truly irritated for the first time. "Do you think I'm that stupid? How about just telling me what's going on?"

How about, because it wasn't the right fucking time? Or because I remembered what happened the last time someone had let him down? How about because I just couldn't fucking stand it if I had to tell him that Gary Sapperstein was going to pay for the pain he'd caused, and then watch him shatter as I backtracked on that promise? I'd already had to do it once, and that very fucking night, I'd nearly lost him. I couldn't take that again, and I wasn't at all willing to put him through it for a second time.

I racked my brains quickly, overly aware of the expectant look he was directing right at me. Finally, I sighed. Hating myself for what I was doing, I swallowed hard, and tried to explain the only way I could— with a lie.

"It's...it's someone I've been talking to, Justin...a therapist." Fuck, I hated this. I hated having to lie to him. But I just could not take the fallout if I had to break the news to him once again that his attacker was walking free, after being so close to paying for what he'd done. I just couldn't put him through that again. I couldn't.

"A therapist?" he repeated, his entire visage relaxing. Then, his brow crinkled. "How come? What about Kathy?"

"It's...my own therapist," I said. "Kathy's there to help you. Carl's there to help me." Okay, so 'Carl' wasn't the most original name I could have come up with, considering the fact that he _was _helping me with the whole Sapperstein thing. I was thinking on my feet here, alright? "He's an old trick. The fee was for my session. I've been doing it over the phone and email, but he thinks it would be better for us to meet in person. I said I didn't want to come in to his office, so he said he's willing to meet me somewhere else to talk." Okay, so I was lying my ass off here, but with small grains of truth imbedded within the bullshit. It was true that I'd once contacted a former trick for therapeutic advice, and he'd agreed to meet me at a bar rather than his office. Of course, that had been just after the bashing, but Justin didn't need to know that.

"Oh," he said, looking as though he didn't know quite what to think. "Oh, that's...good. I mean, that you're talking to someone. So...what _do _you talk about?"

"Ways to help you," I shrugged. The two therapists I'd ever had contact with had been all about helping Justin, so I figured that was a pretty safe way to go. "Things_ I_ can do to help you." Of course, Kathy provided such advice anyway, but hopefully Justin wouldn't ask for specifics.

He was nodding, still apparently trying to take this all in, while I commended myself on my own brilliance. Well, okay, if I was that brilliant, I probably wouldn't have gotten caught in the first place, but you had to admit this was a pretty smooth save.

"So why didn't you tell me before?" he asked. I felt my gut clench slightly at the trust in the bright blue eyes he blinked at me...so ready and willing to accept anything I said to him as the truth.

I shrugged evasively, and he seemed to derive his own answer from this. I relaxed as he nodded again, as if he were processing this and slowly making sense of it.

"This thing...this honesty thing, Brian...it's supposed to be a two-way street," he said, a frown on his face. "I tell you everything. But you have to talk to me, too, you know. You can't deal with everything alone."

I shook my head in agreement, feeling the guilt settle itself in my stomach. He was going to be so pissed when he found out the truth. If things were different— if things were already set in stone— I would have told him right then and there what was really going on. But there was still so much that could go wrong, and neither of us could take that again. Or rather..._I _couldn't take watching him try to deal with it for a second time. So many people had let him down before where justice was concerned, first with Hobbes, then with Sapperstein...this time would be different. It had to be. For him.

He scooted a little closer, practically climbing on top of me, his arms around my neck. "I love you, you asshole," he whispered, and spared me the trouble of reciprocating by kissing me, sucking my tongue into his mouth and stroking my hair, his love and trust in me astounding, even still.

I'd never felt guiltier for lying in my life, but with his lips on mine, his hand at the back of my neck...the desire to protect him won over everything else.

I was convinced, now more than ever, that I was doing the right thing.


	32. Freedom

**~. Justin .~**

Out of all the scenarios my mind had conjured up to explain Brian's weird behavior, him seeing a therapist hadn't been one of them.

I hadn't really meant to ask him about the email. I'd even decided to keep it to myself, sure that he had a good reason for not telling me about whatever was going on. In the end, though, I just...couldn't. I couldn't pretend I didn't know something, couldn't keep quiet while he sat there and purposefully hid things from me. I'd never imagined, however, what that secret would turn out to be.

I mean, it was great that he was talking to someone and hopefully dealing with some things. All this time, he'd been so strong and supportive, because it was what I'd needed. Only I hadn't been in any position to offer the same thing to him. It was good that he was getting that, that he had a place to concentrate on himself and what he felt. Despite the titles he sometimes earned from our friends— 'selfish asshole' among the most popular— Brian was far too selfless at times, and I knew he had to have been lugging around a certain amount of emotional baggage from these last six months, just like me. You didn't go through times like these and come out unscathed. And even though he'd told me that the general topic of discussion during his therapy sessions was me, I sincerely hoped he was talking about his own problems, too. I mean, we already had Kathy to help me get through shit. It didn't really make sense for him to have a therapist for himself, unless he was indeed using the time to work through some of his own issues.

That said, I wasn't entirely thrilled that he'd hidden this from me, but I understood it, in a way. I mean, this _was _Brian Kinney, who, despite helping me work through so much of my own shit, was rather lacking in skill when it came to dealing with some of his own. He'd never once thrown the fact that I was in therapy in my face, or made one of his snide remarks about it. He'd been the one who had suggested it in the first place, after all, and I knew for a fact that he liked Kathy.

However, Brian was also a big fucking hypocrite about a lot of things. What was okay for other people was just unacceptable for him, and I had a feeling that included therapy. Even though he sometimes talked to Kathy about what he was feeling, I supposed having his very own therapist was just one of those things Brian saw as a threat to his untouchable facade of strength, or whatever. I still didn't appreciate the secrecy, but I could let it go and chalk it up to Brian being...well, himself.

"So, when are you supposed to meet with your therapist?" I asked him on Friday morning. I sat on the bed, watching him fidget with his tie in the closet mirror. He stiffened slightly, and I wished, somehow, that I could get it through his head that therapy was nothing to be ashamed of. He didn't have to feel bad about needing it, too; honestly, I wouldn't have been nearly as okay as I was if it weren't for our weekly sessions with Kathy.

"Today, actually," he admitted. "He wanted to meet me...after work."

I frowned at his hesitant demeanor, the tension in his shoulders. "You told him 'yes,' right?"

He cleared his throat, pulling off the tie he'd just spent five minutes picking out and throwing it on the floor. "I told him maybe."

"Maybe?"

He shrugged. "I don't know how long it'll take."

"It doesn't matter," I said earnestly. "If it's me you're worried about, don't. I'll be fine. Daph and I can just hang out and watch a movie or something."

He met my eyes in the mirror. "You sure?" he asked after a moment.

I nodded. "Yeah, definitely." After all the shit he'd done for me, there was no question in the matter. He was doing this, for himself. I pushed myself off the bed, selecting a smooth silk tie from the closet and holding it up to his shirt. "Wear this one."

He just looked at me for a moment, an unidentifiable expression on his face. My eyes fluttered closed as he leaned in and kissed me, then opened when he took the tie from my hand. "Good choice. So why don't you have this kind of taste when it comes to your own clothes?"

I rolled my eyes and decided not to answer that one. Instead, I left him in the bedroom and headed for the kitchen to make us some breakfast. "So, do you want me to come?" I asked him when he joined me a few moments later, still messing with the fucking tie.

"Well, that's up to you, Sunshine, but I'd be happy to lend a hand."

I rolled my eyes at him and his fucking innuendos, even though I'd come to appreciate them, in a way. They were his usual bad puns, but maybe that was why I liked them: they were something normal, something he wouldn't have done as recently as a few months ago, but that he was starting to do more and more lately.

"I meant to your therapy session."

He squinted into the toaster, using the reflective surface as a mirror, still struggling with the tie. Before we left, he'd have to make at least two trips to the closet mirror, and I'd have to assure him at least three times on the way to Daphne's that the damn thing was straight.

"I'm a big boy. I can handle it on my own."

"I know you _can." _Heaven forbid anyone doubt Brian Kinney's self-sufficiency. It wasn't about that, anyway. For once, I had an opportunity to be there for him, to show him how much I loved and supported him, and I wanted to take advantage of it. Whatever he may like to think, he couldn't do everything alone, and I was determined to be his support system if and when he needed it. "I just thought...if you wanted me there, if it might make things easier..."

He stopped me with a look; after a moment, it softened. He sighed and straightened up, coming over to kiss me as I fumbled with getting some bread out for toast.

"Thanks," he said shortly. His hand cupped the back of my neck, his forehead pressed against mine. "But...no thanks." He nudged my nose with his, the tender gesture most likely meant to take some of the sting out of his words. I knew it wasn't anything personal, but still...it felt like a rejection.

He must have caught the expression on my face, because he sighed again, clearly resigning himself to the fact that his answer was simply not good enough. "It's just something I need to do alone...at least for right now."

I let out a deep breath, trying to accept this. I could understand it, I supposed. As much comfort as he'd offered me during the countless Monday mornings we'd spent in therapy, I had to admit that some of it would have been a hundred times easier had he not been there, had I not been worrying about hurting him with the things I had to say. Maybe he was just trying to protect me from that— his own emotions. I may not have liked that, but I could empathize.

"Okay," I agreed reluctantly. "Fine. Just...if you do ever need me, for anything..."

"I'll let you know," he promised.

And that was that.

~.~

"A therapist?" Daphne repeated, scrunching her nose, taking another drag off her cigarette. She'd switched brands again, I'd noticed, as a result of her newest relationship. She'd developed a tradition of switching brands after break-ups, ("That brand was for smoking after sex with _Josh. _New boyfriend, new cigarette brand.") Her philosophy was that, once she found a brand she couldn't quit, she'd find a man that she felt equally loyal to. Evidently, she had taken romance tips from Brian.

"I just...can't imagine it," she continued. "Brian in therapy...he doesn't seem like the type."

"He's not," I agreed. "But I mean, I'm not complaining, if it helps him get through whatever he's dealing with. Maybe it'll help him as much as it's helped me." A hushed infomercial played across the TV, the remote lying forgotten on the floor. We hadn't really been paying attention since she'd demanded that I tell her 'everything, and don't leave out any of the good details,' about the shower Brian and I had shared the previous Saturday night.

She'd been disappointed; I'd left out plenty of details, if only because it just felt like way too intimate an experience to share with anyone but Brian himself. The hard, raunchy fucks of six months ago had never really been declared off limits, but this felt...different. In fact, I hadn't told Daph much more than that it had been amazing, and that I was so grateful that I'd been able to enjoy it.

I'd also told her about the weird email I'd seen in his in-box, and his explanation, which she seemed to find almost odder than the email itself.

She considered me for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe his therapist can help him figure out why he always has to make the bed on the left side before he does the right...you got to admit, that's fucking weird."

I nodded my agreement, taking a drag off my cigarette. Brian definitely had his idiosyncrasies. "Yeah. But he says it's not normal to put the toilet paper on so that it rolls off the bottom, so I guess we're both weird."

She pointed her cigarette at me. "He's right, you know. That's not normal."

"You're not normal."

She made a face at me. "Hey, you're the one with the boyfriend with the weird bed-making-related mental abnormalities."

"That's because your boyfriend doesn't know how to make a bed," I pointed out.

She grimaced. "That's true. I think I saw a pair of his underwear under his pillowcase last weekend."

"At least now you'll never be surprised by his 'dirty laundry,'" I joked.

She stuck her tongue out at me, and we spent a few minutes in companionable silence, sprawled lazily across the couch, watching a commercial that looked suspiciously like something Brian would come up with play across the TV screen.

"You know what we should do again someday?" she asked randomly as the lame horror movie we were watching came back on. I was pretty sure it was from the eighties, one of those shitty ones that Brian would deem a 'classic,' even while verbally ripping it to shreds. "We should make one of those drinks...like those ones we used to make at your house when your parents were gone?"

I snorted, dozens of memories flickering to life on the miniature television inside my head. "God, remember that time Molly walked in when we had my dad's bottle of scotch in my room?"

"Shit...yeah," she giggled. "I thought we were gonna get in so much trouble for that."

"But we said it was for a science project..."

"Bottles on Bunsen Burners," she remembered. "God, we were fucking stupid."

"Yeah. Who knew all you had to do was get a fake ID to get into a real bar?" Shit, I'd been naive back then. We both had."What brought this up, anyway?"

She shook her head, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. "You remember Cindy McPherson's sweet sixteen? How she got her older brother to buy alcohol for her party, and practically everyone went home drunk?"

I snickered, then winced at the memory of puking my guts out the next morning. I'd been fifteen, and it had been the first time I'd ever tried alcohol. I'd been so nervous, it had taken Daphne offering to try it first to get me to take my first sip...the first of many for both of us. "Yeah..."

"I ran into her the other day."

"No way," I said, sitting up a little straighter. "How is she?"

"Pregnant," said Daphne frankly. "Huge. Anyway, it just got me thinking about that night. We went over to your house afterward...remember your parents were out of town for some wedding or whatever? We snuck in that beer from the party, and then you made us those drinks from their stock?"

"That was fun," I said, laughing and flicking the end of my cigarette into the ashtray she passed me. "Fuck, I was hungover the next day."

"Our first hangovers," she smiled. "An occasion to remember, for sure. Anyway, I was just thinking...we haven't done something like that together in a while."

"Gotten drunk off our asses?"

"Had fun," she said, then seemed to realize how it had sounded. "I mean...we have _fun, _you know, together, but...we haven't really gone out and done something stupid in a while."

"We could always break into my dad's place, I guess," I mused. "Steal some of his scotch..."

"Stealing, underage drinking, _and _breaking and entering...I'm impressed," she said thoughtfully, grinning. "Nah, I just meant...we should do something sometime. I mean, I know there are... reasons that we haven't, but...when you're up to it— it might be fun. No pressure or anything, really, just...maybe sometime we could go see a movie or something?"

For just a moment, I hated that thing inside me that had to think that proposition over. I forced it down into the darkest recesses of my mind, and let out a breath, cleansing myself of it. Or at least trying to.

"Yes," I said decisively. "Yeah, definitely. Sometime."

She nodded, looking pleased. Or maybe that was relief. "Great." Her smile faded as she stared down at her knees, as though wondering whether or not she should say anything more. "Listen, Justin...I get that you're still going through a lot. But...I mean, if you ever want to just...do something, get away from it all, or whatever...you're still my best friend. And I promise we can do, like, whatever you need to feel comfortable. I know I'm not Brian, but..." she shrugged, her voice trailing off.

I let a smile of my own pull at my lips. Even after everything, she was still my best friend, too, the one I spilled all my secrets to. The one I counted on.

"Sounds great," I said truthfully. "We'll do that...we'll go out. See a movie or something." Someday. Hopefully someday soon.

"Cool," she grinned back. "Ooh, hey, guess what Cindy McPherson told me about Trisha Mason? You remember her, right?"

I nodded eagerly, stubbing out my cigarette and leaning forward to listen.

**~. Brian .~**

"Hey, Mikey," I said, holding my cell phone to my ear with one hand and steering with the other, wishing I had a third hand to grab a cigarette with.

"Hey," his voice had that somewhat frazzled tone it took on at the end of a busy day. "What's up?"

"You still at the shop?"

"Just closing up. Why?"

"Feel like a drink?" I asked, pulling into the turning lane that would eventually take me to Woody's. The question was mostly perfunctory; I knew that Ben taught late classes on Friday nights, and that Michael would otherwise be sitting at home waiting for his husband to return for the next two hours if I didn't drag him out with me. "I mean, let's face it, it's not like you've got anything better to do."

"Right, like you just got back from your worldwide tour and Hollywood premier event," he said sarcastically. I heard the _ding _of his shop door, and could imagine him standing just outside it, locking up as we spoke. "Sounds good. Look, my cell's almost dead. I'll see you at Woody's, okay? About twenty minutes?"

"See you there."

I snapped my phone shut and reached for a cigarette and a lighter, steering with one hand while I lit up and took that first drag, watching the smoke rise and drift out the open window. Storm clouds had been steadily accumulating in the sky all day, threatening to unleash their wicked fury on us all at any moment. The rather dismal atmosphere did nothing for my already less-than-stellar mood.

There was an aching knot of overwhelming guilt in my stomach that even nine hours of mulling things over at work had done nothing to dispel. I hadn't realized the other night how complicated my initial lie had the possibility of becoming. I'd lied to Justin about the email, the thought never crossing my mind that I might have to do it again, to cover up for the first one. But that was exactly what had happened.

Now, I was on my way to Woody's to waste time with a fake appointment with a therapist that didn't even exist. Was this going to become a regular occurrence until I could tell him the truth? How often would he expect me to "meet" with "Carl," anyway? I didn't like this. I'd never liked lying, preferring the truth— no matter how brutal— over feeling-sparing falsehoods ninety-nine percent of the time.

The problem was, this was about more than sparing feelings. This was about sparing Justin from what had the potential to be complete and total devastation. Only somewhere along the line, I'd apparently decided to develop a conscience, and now that little knot of tension in my stomach was growing, making it harder and harder to justify keeping this secret. It hadn't been so bad when he hadn't known, had barely suspected. I'd hidden this all for months, in the early stages when nothing was for certain. Things _still _weren't set in stone, mind you, still had the potential to go wrong at any given turn. But now, things were worse. Now, I was actually spinning elaborate, outright lies to his face.

The only thing that kept me from spilling everything was the memories that had seared themselves into my brain: his face, when I'd told him that Sapperstein was walking free; my fear, when I'd woken up later that night and he was nowhere to be found; our mutual devastation at what he'd tried to do up on that rooftop, hours after I'd given him that news.

I wasn't naive enough to believe that it had _only _been the information about Sapperstein that had made him do it. Whatever he said, thoughts of suicide had been on his mind long before that. They had to have been. But still, that news had played a major part in pushing him over the edge, the idea that his attacker was free while he lived within the confines of his own personal hell. And while I knew he was in a better place now, and that another failed attempt to get Sapperstein locked up probably wouldn't devastate him as much as it had the last time...there was no pretending that he wouldn't take it hard. Time after time, the world had let him down, first with Hobbes, then with the Sap...how many injustices was he supposed to fucking face? How much was he supposed to fucking go through before someone fucking paid the price for hurting him? This second attack had nearly killed him— in a different but equally devastating way as the first— and it wasn't exactly difficult to see why. What he'd gone through was bad enough on its own, without him already reeling from the bashing. It was like he was the world's fucking punching bag or something, and I was fucking sick of it. I was going to make damn fucking sure that justice was served on his behalf this time, and that no one ever let him down again.

I was still struggling with this justification of my own actions when I pulled up at Woody's, about ten minutes before Michael did. I ordered a much needed drink, relishing the taste of the cool liquid as it slid down my throat. I couldn't get too fucked up— Justin was, after all, under the impression I was with my therapist tonight. I was pretty sure you were supposed to stay mostly sober for such things.

It had started to rain in the few minutes I'd been inside, so that Michael bore the unmistakable signs of this by the time he arrived. The soaking wet soles of his shoes squeaked their way across the floor, tracking footprints all the way.

"Hey," he said, cheery despite his rather sodden appearance as he slid onto a bar stool next to me.

"Hey. When did the monsoon start?" I asked, making a show of angling away from him as he pulled off his rain-soaked jacket, nearly smacking me with it in the process.

"Just now. It's pouring," he said, as if I hadn't realized. "Last time it did this, the power went out in the apartment. Ben had to grade papers by candlelight, and—"

I snorted. "Why am I not surprised that the most exciting thing the two of you can find to do in the dark with candles is grade papers? And here I thought I raised you better than that."

"Guess I managed to turn out normal anyway, despite your best efforts," he grinned at me cheekily.

I tried to return the smile, taking another deep swig of my beer to hide the fact that I couldn't quite muster it up, daring to hope that he wouldn't ask questions. Of course, this was Michael, so naturally it turned out to be in vain.

"So, how's Justin?" he asked habitually, leaning over the counter to get the bartender's attention. "Is he home tonight?"

I shook my head. "He stayed at Daphne's today." I hesitated. "He, uh...he thinks I'm meeting with a therapist right now." I don't know why I said it. Maybe because he was the only one besides Carl who knew about what was really going on. Or maybe because of some fucked up hope I had that he might assuage my guilt a little, tell me I was doing the right thing, brush off any misgivings I had.

He frowned. "Why does he think that?"

"Because I told him I was." I sighed, flagging down the bartender myself and ordering a beer for Michael and a second for myself, inwardly promising that it would be the last one I had tonight.

He waited until the bartender disappeared before turning to me. I wasn't sure if the spark of accusation in his eyes was real, or simply my conscience fucking with my head; either way, I didn't like it."You told him you were seeing a therapist," he repeated.

"Yeah."

"And...you're not," he clarified.

"No."

"So...you hate the concept of therapy. You hate therapists. You hate anything to do with being analyzed and questioned about your feelings...and yet for some reason you figured it would be a good idea to lie and tell Justin you're seeing a therapist."

"Right."

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if the proper reply to this eluded him. "I would say that I'm sure you have a great explanation for this, but...I really have no fucking idea what it could be," he admitted finally.

I sighed, scrubbing a hand over my face. "I fucked up," I began simply. As strange and ultimately unreliable as this process was, I was sort of hoping to gauge Justin's potential reaction by the severity of Michael's. If Mikey flipped out on me, I was pretty sure Justin's reaction would be even worse, considering he was the one I was fucking lying to. And if Mikey understood...well, okay, there was still a very good chance that Justin would be flipping out once he discovered the truth. And honestly, all things considered, I wouldn't really blame him. At all. But maybe— just maybe— there was a chance that he might understand.

"He, uh...he found something...an email, on my computer." Fuck, why the hell hadn't I been more careful? Why hadn't I made sure to sign out every time I'd checked my mail? Why hadn't I fucking password-protected every single fucking thing on that goddamn computer that had any potential to make him suspicious? "I told him it was from a therapist I've been seeing."

Michael was nodding slowly, as if so far, everything was making perfect sense. "And...who was it really from?"

Suddenly, I was aware of how thick the crowd was around us, how many pairs of ears could catch even a snippet of conversation, and leaned in closer. "You remember that guy I told you I'd been trying to get in contact with?"

Michael's eyes widened. "You found him?"

I smiled, partly at his excitement, partly at my own relief that this whole thing was finally almost over. I mean, yeah, we still had fucking months— maybe even years— of residual issues to work through. I didn't entertain even for a second the idea that I could make this all go away just by giving Gary Sapperstein what he deserved. However, it did feel like...closure. Like maybe we could finally put this behind us once and for all, for real. We'd never really gotten that resolution after the bashing, we'd just sort of pushed ourselves on until we were once again standing tall. I fucking needed some sense of the end this time, because honestly, I didn't think it would ever be over otherwise. Maybe this act of justice could help us start putting all of it behind us, the bashing and the rape, once and for all.

"I found him."

"That's great," he gushed, his voice low, but his eyes conveying his excitement. He fell silent when the bartender reappeared with our drinks, waiting until he wandered away down the bar again to take the orders of two young twinks that I doubted were even legal. "So, what did he tell you?"

"I haven't met with him yet. He just got back to me a couple days ago," I explained. "We're supposed to meet in person sometime next week."

"Shit," Michael said quietly, blowing out a seemingly awestruck breath. "Shit, Brian...does that mean they're gonna do it soon? They can arrest him?"

"Hopefully. Carl thinks they've finally got enough information as far as the drug deals go. We want to make sure it's definite, though." I took a swig of beer from my bottle, grimacing. "Apparently he's been arrested before, for everything from drugs to sex crimes, but they think he's got someone— or a few people— pulling strings and helping him out, because somehow, he's managed to avoid actually having the charges stick and being sent to fucking prison, where he belongs."

"So, how are they going to make sure it sticks this time?" Michael frowned.

"Well, that's where my newest contact comes in," I said grimly, feeling somewhat smug, despite everything. "He has a few contacts of his own, and we think he might know enough to end this fucking thing for good."

"God," Michael whispered, his eyes wide. "So...it's really gonna happen? He's gonna fucking pay?"

I let my lips curve into the smallest of satisfied smiles, just at how fucking good those words sounded to me. "Looks like it."

He swore softly, taking a gulp of beer. "Fuck...it's just so..._fuck._"

"I know."

"So, why didn't you tell Justin? I mean, this seems like a pretty definite thing now, right?"

"Nothing's definite until it's done," I said roughly. "And I'm not fucking telling him a thing until it's over. The last time he thought Sapperstein was going to pay and he didn't...it really fucking tore him up. I'm not taking that chance again." I knew Michael wouldn't get the severity of Justin's reaction, not without the full story, but I wasn't about to go into it. What had happened on that rooftop was between me, Justin, and Kathy— and I planned to keep it that way.

"Just...promise me you'll be careful," he said pleadingly. "Legally...emotionally...it could hurt you, too. And I know you're just going to say it was nothing compared to what Justin went through, but he's not the only one who's gone through hell these last few months, and you know it."

I took another drink from the bottle, ignoring the sensation of his eyes boring into me. "You've already nagged me about this, remember? I told you I'd be careful."

"First of all, I'm not _nagging," _he said crossly. "And second of all, you just...you scare the shit out of me sometimes, Brian. I've already seen you go through hell_— twice—_ and I'm just not particularly eager to fucking see it happen again. Haven't you been through enough? Hasn't Justin?"

"Through hell and back," I muttered. "And now it's the Sap's turn."

He sighed again, as if I was causing him unparalleled anguish just by making him worry about all of this. "Look, I get that you have to do this, I do..."

"Do you? Get it?" I added when he raised a questioning eyebrow. "How fucking horrible it's been?"

"I..."

"You don't," I said quietly. "You _can't. _You don't fucking know what it's like...until you've been through it." He showed every sign of interrupting, but I pressed on. "I don't just want to get him on anything. And I don't want this case against him falling apart like the last one. I want him gone for a long, long time...as long as possible." Forever might be long enough. Maybe. "I want him to fucking _suffer _as long as possible. This...all of this, it's Sapperstein's fault. Justin's not the only one he's done this to, and he sure as hell won't be the last if someone doesn't do something. He fucking deserves whatever he gets."

In true queenly Novotny fashion, he didn't look any less mollified by this. Only Michael (and probably Debbie, to be fair) would worry about the legal ramifications of catching a criminal. "I'm not arguing with that. I mean...if it were Ben...I'd want Sapperstein dead, too, but..."

I shook my head. "I don't want him dead."

"You...don't?"

"Not at first. At first...I want him to feel what Justin felt," I said, cold hatred making my skin crawl, my grip on the neck of my bottle tightening. "I want him to _want _to die way before he ever gets to."

Michael made a noise that might have been alarm. Now that I thought about it, I don't think he's ever heard me sound so ready to kill someone. "And we're back to the scaring the shit out of me thing again."

I glanced over at him, forcing myself to relax a little. He didn't get it. He couldn't get how much I longed to see Gary Sapperstein suffer, the way Justin and I had suffered for the past six and a half months. He'd fucking...he'd _killed _Justin inside for the longest time. That was it. He'd fucking killed Justin's soul, for a while at least, and I wanted prison to do the same thing to him. I wanted more than his physical life: I wanted him to suffer the death of his livelihood. And Michael, no matter how much he cared, could not possibly have a chance at understanding this until he woke up nearly every night for months on end with his boyfriend screaming and crying over the memories that piece of shit had given him to suffer...until he saw the person he loved on the roof of a fucking building, desperate to end their pain...until he'd given everything he could of himself to fix what had once seemed irreparable.

"Don't," I said simply. "Don't freak out on me. I told you, I'm taking the high road on this one. As much as I can, anyway."

He blew out another deep breath. "I know. It's just...fucking scary. It's like you're messing in this whole big _thing, _and...look, I just don't want you to get in over your head."

"You worry too much," I grumbled.

"You don't worry enough," he countered. "And even if I do worry, I'm entitled. I'm half Italian, half drag-queen, remember? It's in my blood."

I snorted softly. "Well, recklessness and alcoholism are in my blood, so that justifies pretty much ninety percent of my life."

His hand was warm and firm on my neck, guiding me away from my contemplation of the last vestiges of liquid at the bottom of my beer bottle, and down to his lips for a kiss. He pressed his forehead to mine, his eyes sparkling with something akin to admiration, and maybe a bit of love.

"You're fucking unbelievable. You know that, right?"

I smirked. "As a matter of fact, I do. And you're totally pathetic, you know that,right?"

He rolled his eyes, his beer-scented breath huffing against my face as he laughed.

**~. Justin .~**

"Christ, Brian, that's disgusting."

I grimaced at the image on the television screen. It was a Sunday evening, and once again, we were sitting home watching fucking movies. Well, _he _was watching a movie. I'd had some school shit to do, and he'd been adamantly refusing to watch any film of my choice since I'd forced him through an admittedly cheesy animated movie that had gotten great reviews online. Brian just couldn't appreciate it for the animation, probably because there were no hot guys to stare at and not a single sex scene throughout the entire PG-rated monstrosity he seemed to think it was. Not that it would have made a difference— unless we specifically rented (or bought, or downloaded) a film with gay sex scenes, most of them tended to be all about the Hollywood heteros of the moment, much to Brian's aggravation.

"Well, who the fuck wants to watch a sex scene and look at tits and pussy the whole time?" he'd grumble in disgust. "If I wanted to see that, I'd watch Mel and Lindsay go at it."

He tilted his head at the screen, as if viewing the TV from a different angle might make the image on it any less revolting. "For once, I think I agree with your film evaluation, Sunshine. So far there've been a total of three naked women, two sex scenes, and not one glimpse of cock. Who the hell wants to watch something like that?"

"I was talking about the mutilated body with the intestines spilling out of it, but I see your point." I rolled my eyes. "What kind of twisted mind comes up with this stuff, anyway?"

"My guess is the same kind that invented lesbian porn," he shrugged. "But if you want, we can change it to something a little better suited to your tastes."

He held up the remote, and with a few clicks, the gore disappeared, something ridiculously bright, cheerful, and made specifically for preschoolers appearing in its place.

"Hilarious, Brian. Really, thank you."

Another click, and the TV went black. "Whatever. I need to shower sometime tonight, anyway...unless you wanted to go first."

I shook my head, and he pushed himself up off the couch. I found myself trailing nervously behind him all the way to the bathroom.

"Brian..." I forced my eyes away from his bare chest as he stripped of his shirt— not because it made me uncomfortable, but because watching him get naked was not exactly conducive to my goal, which having a serious discussion with him. Naked-Brian tended to distract me. Of course, then he began sliding his pants over his thighs, and I nearly forgot what I was supposed to be saying. Fuck, maybe there was a better way to have this conversation. "Can I join you?"

He faltered in the act of pulling his foot free from his pant leg, stumbling slightly before steadying himself with a hand on the wall. "Join me? In the...in there?" He gestured behind him, as if there were any doubt that I was referring to the shower.

"Yeah," I shrugged. "Do you mind?"

"Have I ever?"`

I smiled and began stripping of my own clothes, tossing them into a pile with Brian's. His gaze swept appreciatively over my body, lingering on my cock as I stepped out of my underwear and kicked them aside. I ignored the shiver that passed over me as we stepped into the shower together, closing the door behind us.

I stood back as he turned on the water, waiting until he'd adjusted the temperature to step into the warm spray. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, letting it rush over me.

"This okay?"

I opened my eyes when I felt him start to massage shampoo in my hair, gently pulling me from underneath the spray so that he could work it in.

"Yeah." I had half a mind to simply save my announcement for after our shower and enjoy this, but I'd been working up to this moment for a good portion of the week, and was finally ready to take the plunge. Of course, the truth of it was, it didn't really matter whether Brian liked it or not. I could do whatever I wanted, and I certainly planned to do so. But still...I _wanted _him to be okay with it. I'd debated and thought it over and planned out every argument, ever since last Wednesday night, when I'd stayed home alone— and finally, I was ready. I wanted this.

I let him guide me back beneath the water, soapy rivulets pouring over my shoulders as he ran his hands through my hair, rinsing out the shampoo. I kept my eyes and mouth closed until he was finished, then stepped back out from directly under the spray of the shower, reaching for the shampoo bottle and pouring some into my palm. Wordlessly, he bent his head to let me work it through his hair, then ducked beneath the water to rinse.

"Listen...I need to talk to you about something," I began.

He kept his eyes squeezed shut, but I could sense that I'd gotten his attention anyway. I decided to just say it, get it in the open instead of drawing it out and making it worse. "I'm...I'm going to stay home tomorrow. By myself. While you're at work."

I saw his shoulders tense, and after a few seconds, he stepped back out of the water, shaking his head and splattering me with droplets from his hair. He just looked at me, like he expected me to continue. And so I did.

"Actually...I'm going to stay home the next day, too. And— every day, from now on, while you're at work. I'll go to school, but...I want to come back here afterward. Instead of my mom's or Daphne's."

There. Plain and simple, the best way to go about things like this. I'd thought it over long and hard, and this was what I wanted. I was sure of it...sure of myself, for once. Even earlier this week, when I'd stayed alone those few hours that Brian had gone out to Woody's, I'd been surprisingly okay. Comfortable. Of course, I enjoyed having Brian here even more, but it had been nice to have that freedom back, just for a little while. Mostly, it had just felt weird, having so much time to myself and no one to share it with. I hadn't been nearly as scared as I'd been right after it happened, with the fear and the paranoia, when the silence and loneliness had screamed at me until I'd wanted to shout myself hoarse just to hear the sound of a human voice. And last Wednesday, I'd been given that little shove I'd been needing— I knew I'd be okay here during the day, and I was ready to make it happen.

He pressed his lips together, giving a slow nod of his head. "And you're, uh..." he cleared his throat. "You sure you're up for that?"

I nodded, holding his gaze, never once wavering in my decision. It was time for this. I was ready for it. "I'm sure."

He swallowed hard once, tearing his gaze away for a moment during which I imagined he struggled with the idea a bit, as I knew he would. Finally, he forced his eyes back to mine. "Okay."

"Okay?" I repeated. I'd been _almost _sure that he'd go along with it, but to hear the acceptance in his voice, to see the trust in his eyes...it meant fucking everything to me, and it felt better than I could have imagined.

He shrugged. "What the fuck else am I supposed to say? You want to do it, right?"

"Well...yeah. But...I want you to be okay with it." As ready and determined as I was, there was something about knowing that Brian trusted me to do this that reassured me more than anything else. His confidence gave _me _confidence.

He closed his eyes briefly, sighing, as if he couldn't quite believe he was saying this."I am okay with it."

The warmth of his faith in me seemed to spread throughout my body. Within seconds, I had closed the distance between us, my hand around the back of his neck.

"Thank you," I whispered against his mouth. He leaned forward ever so slightly, answering with a simple brush of our lips. We just stood there kissing for a long time, relief and happiness bubbling up inside me.

Of course, however innocent it started off, kissing a naked Brian in the shower was bound to lead to things. I felt my dick start to respond as I melted into him, felt his own arousal pressing into me, and my breath caught in my throat. For something I'd been so afraid of for the longest time, it seemed there was still a part of me that stood no chance against the perfection of his body.

I fumbled for the soap, breaking our kiss with a small smile. He stood there and let me clean him, running the soap over his skin, admiring the sculpted muscles beneath my hands. He allowed his eyes to slip closed as I slid the soap across his stomach, up his sides, down his arms, over his hips.

There was something just so sensual about doing this that got to me each and every time. The longer we stood beneath the water, soaping each other and kissing playfully and just touching as often as possible, the harder we both grew. The shower hid nothing, and I found that I appreciated this when I looked down and saw his dick, begging for my attention.

Something about making him hard him never failed to make me feel powerful, just knowing that I could make him feel that way. Knowing that he wanted me— it made me feel beautiful, sexy. After everything, it was a nice feeling to have, when I'd once been sure that no one could or would ever touch me like that again. I sometimes wondered, even still, if it ever bothered Brian. If— when he was touching me, running his hands and lips over my body— he ever thought about the _other _pairs of hands and lips that had once done the very same thing. To me, sometimes it was like he was erasing those hand prints, replacing them with his own and making everything right again. I wondered if it felt the same to him, or if it ever bothered him to know that so many other men had taken what I was always trying so hard to give to him.

He'd taken the soap from me and was tracing soapy patterns across my skin, brushing his lips against mine every once in a while. We held each other's gazes as he pulled me closer to wash my back, trailing lower and lower. Our dicks brushed against each other, making me bite my lip to keep from moaning.

"Touch me," I whispered, goosebumps shooting up my spine when his hand finally slipped down to my ass. He caught my lips with his and backed me gently against the wall, his other hand roaming down my chest and stomach, playing with the hairs just above my cock. "Brian..."

He heeded my plea and stopped his teasing— or maybe it was a test— pressing a reassuring kiss to my lips as his hand closed almost tenderly around my dick. I gasped and let out a whimper, my fingers digging into his arms as he began to stroke me.

I tilted my head up to receive his kisses, pulling away every so often to catch my breath, take stock and maybe alleviate some of the nerves in my stomach that were starting to make me somewhat nauseous. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Brian. I had to remember that I was with Brian.

It was sort of overwhelming— pleasure like this— when I was still so unused to it. Me actually getting an erection when we made out was steadily becoming the rule, rather than the exception, but I'd still only gotten off a total of one time in the last six months. Hopefully even that would start to become more common, but right now, it felt sort of like I was discovering sex all over again, only with this dark cloud hanging over my head that hadn't been there the first time.

I kept my eyes open even when we kissed, now, needing that extra bit of reassurance. After a while, he let go of my ass and wrapped his hand around his own dick, and I watched in fascination as he jerked us off, his movements synchronized, both of our dicks achingly hard in his grip. I had the strongest fucking urge to just sink to my knees, take him into my mouth and suck him dry. I couldn't, I knew, but that didn't keep the thoughts away. I'd always loved sucking him off, loved the taste and weight and sensation of his cock in my mouth, and it seemed a part of that had never really gone away. Unfortunately, there were other parts that _had _disappeared— such as the actual ability to do it— but I could just envision it for now and concentrate on the sight of his fists moving over both our cocks, cause truth be told, just watching it was almost enough to make me come.

It also helped keep my mind off things, kept my focus on us instead of the unease I felt, and the whispers of things I didn't want to think about at the back of my mind. I alternated between watching his gorgeous face twist in pleasure from his own ministrations, and watching him pump his own beautiful dick.

"God, Brian..." Never once did he take his eyes off of me, and never once did he falter in the leisurely pace with which he was jerking us off. I began to rock against him, pushing into the pleasure I was receiving. "You feel so...fuck, so good..."

His answer was yet another kiss, gentle and nonthreatening. His tongue stroked mine inside my mouth as his hand did the same to my cock, and all of it was just so much and so good and finally, I couldn't hold back anymore. I think I was shaking as I gave a final gasp into his mouth, right before my head fell back against the shower wall.

"God..." I squeezed my eyes shut tight, my entire body shuddering as my orgasm overcame me. Seconds later, I felt warm jets of his own cum shooting between us before the spray of the shower could wash them away. I slumped against him to keep my knees from buckling, silently asking him to keep me on my feet, to hold me together for the moment because I honestly wasn't sure if I could do it for myself.

Fuck...I wondered if it would feel like this every time I came from now on, if it would always be this overwhelming, momentous thing. I wondered if it would always send me into his arms, begging him to help me sort this out, to just let me breathe and take it in and gather my bearings. And I did, I did all of it, hating myself for not being able to hold myself together, but loving him for having the strength and willingness to do it for me for now.

He rubbed my back for a while, pressing kisses to my soaking wet hair and asking every so often if I was okay. I just nodded into his neck, closing my eyes and basking in the sensations of warmth and safety and pride and what could only described as sheer joy. Maybe someday, this wouldn't be such a big deal. Maybe someday, we would once again take this for granted, the way we had before. In a way, I hoped this would be the case. But if not, this tidal wave of intensity each and every time— while it would take some getting used to— might not be the worst thing to have to deal with.

This time, we actually did make it out of the shower before the water ran cold. We lay on the couch together for a while— him watching TV at one end, me sketching at the other— our legs tangled together in the middle. He rubbed my calf a bit with his foot, shooting me little glances every once in a while that made me wonder what he was looking for, and what he was seeing.

I smiled to myself as I worked on my drawing, happily doodling a little sketch of Rage and JT— my two new favorite subjects, after Brian and myself— in a rather intimate position, wearing identical expressions of ecstasy. It wasn't even close to being done, but I'd have time to work on it more tomorrow, when I was home.

Home— the concept of being left home alone for such an extended period of time was almost foreign to me. I was somewhat nervous, I'd admit, but more than that, I was excited. It was like everything was falling into its perfect place again. We were _moving _towards that perfect place, and I knew that, whatever we still had to get through to make it, it would be worth it. I mean, we were starting to develop a sex life again. Admittedly, the extent of that life was a total of two hand jobs so far, but it was something...more than something. And, I was going to be staying home alone for the second time in months, which was a privilege I'd once thought lost to me forever. It wasn't just me, either— things were getting better for Brian, too. Hell, he was even seeing a therapist. Things were just getting so much better for us...for both of us.

Sometimes, that perfect place inside my head didn't seem so far off at all.

**~. Brian .~**

I'd told myself I wasn't going to lose it and freak out on him. I'd told myself that if and when he wanted to start staying home alone again, I would stand back and let him do what he needed to do. After all, I trusted him with his life, his own well-being. I trusted him with everything I had.

It was just that up until I'd started making him go to Daphne's and his mom's during the day, he'd spent endless hours crying, sketching extremely disturbing images, and locking himself in the bathroom while I was at work. Not that I thought he'd suddenly relapse if I left him alone for a day, but still...being gone, knowing he was at home alone... it brought back a lot of memories of times I wasn't exactly eager to return to.

I called him a good four or five times a day for the first week I left him by himself. Sometimes, I just needed the reassurance that we _weren't _living in those times again, that things were different now. And the sound of his cheery— albeit exasperated— voice never failed to remind me.

Once upon a time, I probably would have instigated a steamy session of phone-sex during at least one of those calls per day. However, I didn't really like the idea of him jerking off alone, without me there in case things started to go wrong. Instead, I saved all those dirty little thoughts for him until I returned to the loft, then I kissed him senseless. We rarely made it further than passionate make-outs and mutual hard-ons, but every once in a while we'd get lucky and manage to jerk each other off.

I never, ever would have imagined that a hand job could feel that amazing, but when it was Justin's hand, and Justin's dick, and after everything...well, I no longer took these things for granted. Every moment spent kissing him, or touching him, or jerking him off...it filled something inside me. That normalcy we'd lost— every time I touched him, every day he spent alone, we gained a little of that back.

So, all in all, him being home during the day was working out just fine. I got to come straight home after work instead of picking him up from his mom's or Daphne's, and unless my imagination was exaggerating, he seemed even happier than usual to see me when I walked in the front door. Sometimes, he'd have a meal on the table or take-out on the way. Other times, he'd be studiously bent over some school project, a look of deep concentration on his face.

One downfall about the whole thing was the fact, once a week, I had to lie to him. It was something I would have had to do anyway, but somehow it was worse, now, knowing he was at home alone and not hanging out with Daphne or something. But every Friday, I'd leave in the morning with either an explanation or a note, if he was still sleeping, that I would be late because I was meeting with my therapist.

It wasn't even the fact that I was staying out later than usual that bothered me— he never cared when I went to Woody's after work, and I _knew _he was fine at home by himself— I didn't feel guilty for that. I felt guilty because the one thing I'd always promised him was honesty, and now I was lying through my teeth to him every week.

To my credit, though, I was also doing everything I could to ensure that any additional lies wouldn't be necessary. I regularly cleared my cell phone call history and made sure to sign out of my email when I was done, even going so far as to change my password. I'd always gone with the philosophy that it wasn't really lying if you were forced to do it, but really, how could this possibly be Justin's fault? I justified it to myself with the knowledge that it was only temporary, that it was for his own good...but every single time I had to lie to his face, I felt the guilt set in.

"So, I'll see you around seven, then? When you're done with Carl?"

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose, wishing that, for once, Justin wouldn't be so fucking understanding. "Yeah. Seven."

"You don't mind if I order some dinner, do you? I'll save some for you when you get home."

"Yeah...sounds good," I said, trying not to think about him eating dinner alone while I spent yet another night at Woody's with Michael. I couldn't even get well and truly drunk on these little outings...though I had been known to be a bit more open while intoxicated, getting wasted with my therapist might serve to arouse Justin's suspicions. And honestly, out of all the things Justin-related I took pleasure in arousing, his suspicions weren't included. "Well...I better get going."

He kissed me goodbye softly, sweetly. Somehow, having him kiss me after I lied to him made things even worse. My kisses were my promise to him, my commitment...the one vow I'd always assumed I'd honor. "Later."

"Later."

This most recent occurrence of overwhelming guilt had been this morning, barely five hours ago. Tonight, he'd eat that dinner alone. Tonight, I'd be out with Michael, or as far as Justin knew, with my therapist. Tonight, I'd add yet another crime to the list I knew I'd eventually have to pay for. I couldn't hide this forever, and didn't plan to, but...fuck, every time I lied, I made it worse. Every week, every day that passed that I didn't tell him the truth was another day he's resent me for later on.

I stared at the unsent text message on my phone, my thumb hovering over the button that would send it straight to Justin's cell. _I'll be home at 6. Need to talk to you._

I took a deep breath, and flipped the phone closed, effectively erasing the message. Fuck, I just needed a few more weeks, just to make sure. Just to make sure everything was happening the way it was supposed to.

I gave a sigh of helpless aggravation, hunching over the desk, trying to mentally ward off the headache I could feel building behind my eyelids. Perhaps it was simply a result of the thousand images pressing against them, of Justin's face, Justin's tears, Justin's misery. His expression when I'd told him Sapperstein wouldn't be paying for his crimes. His attempts to brush off the injustice of Hobbes' unfair sentencing. All the times his "allergies" had acted up when dealing with his asshole father. All the people who had let him down...all the times the fucking world had let him down, breaking him just a little more inside each time in the process.

It was time someone fucking got him the justice he deserved. And if I had to tell a few little lies to protect him until that happened— if it prevented, in the long run, even one more unnecessary tear— it would be worth it. It had to be.

**~. Justin .~**

One thing I don't think I was really prepared for when I told Brian that I would be staying home alone was the silence.

I'd been staying at the loft during the day for about two weeks now. It wasn't even the absence of conversation that unnerved me, because it wasn't like I spent every waking moment talking to my friends and family. It was just that I'd gotten used to the sounds of another person always being close by, and now that there was no one in the next room making lunch, or taking a shower, or watching TV...it was weird. Sometimes, I had to turn on the TV or some music, just to fill the loft with some noise.

Despite the peculiarity of the situation, however, it really wasn't all that bad. I kept the phone by me at all times, taking comfort in the fact that Brian was only seven digits away if I needed him, and I texted Daphne occasionally. Brian called during his lunch breaks, and sometimes my mom dropped by to visit with Molly.

I did a lot of sketching, too, when I wasn't doing school work. My favorite drawings were those of Brian and me, and sometimes Rage and JT. Most of them involved sex in some way, most likely because it was a topic consistently at the forefront of my mind these days.

At the moment, I was working on my sixth sketch of the week of us. This one featured him with his legs open, me lying between his thighs, his hands twisted in my hair as I sucked him off. It saddened me as much as it turned me on; I'd been thinking about it a lot lately, but for now, I'd resigned myself to the fact that it just wasn't a possibility for me. I had to remember to take one step at a time.

I didn't think I'd ever get tired of having his hand on me, though; it was beyond amazing, knowing that this part of me still existed. It was like there were now two separate entities when it came to sex— one was the shaken, terrified part of me that still lived within my memories...the part that belonged to Them. But then, there was this whole other part— the bigger part— the one that belonged to Brian and me. It was like that piece of me was slowly coming out of hiding, reasserting its place in our lives.

I flexed my fingers, willing my hand to hold out just a little longer as I put the finishing touches on my drawing. Smiling to myself, I held it up to look at it, my gaze raking over every line, every detail. It was hot; there was no denying that. And it got me thinking all sorts of filthy things about Brian, which was unfortunate, as I still had several more hours to wait before he got home. I sighed, setting the drawing aside.

I debated over whether or not to start on another sketch of us. I was still running on that creative high, but I also didn't want to push my hand too much. I closed my eyes, letting my mind wander through possible subjects to draw. Something inspiring. Something worth getting down on paper.

My eyes fluttered open, my gaze gravitating to the stack of comics on Brian's desk, the ones Michael had wanted me to look at. What I was supposed to do with them was beyond me, but I supposed it was kind of cool, in a way, that he was reminded of my sketches when looking at real, professional comic books.

I pushed myself off the bed and went to retrieve them, dumping them all over the duvet when I returned with a sizable stack. I sat up by the pillows, arranging the comics in front of me, flipping through them one by one. I found that I was more intrigued by the designs than the stories, the artist in me drawn to this particular style of illustration.

After a little while of looking over random superhero pictures, I opened my own sketchpad and flipped to a page with one of my Rage drawings, setting it at the end of the line of comics, comparing and contrasting the respective styles— finding that I was comparing considerably more often. Finally having enough with just sitting and looking, my fingers brushing over the pages, I snatched up my sketches again and turned to a new page, grabbing my pencil and putting it to paper with renewed vigor.

**~. Brian .~**

It was after seven by the time I got home. I stood outside the loft for a moment, my hand on the door, attempting to shake off my own unease. I would have liked to have simply blamed it on the guilt I'd been stewing in all day long, but this tension was a sensation I'd familiarized myself with every night for the last two weeks.

Of course, all I had to do was open the door to see that everything was as it should be, that life itself was once again more or less the way it was supposed to be. So I shrugged off any remaining apprehension and slid open the door.

I found Justin passed out on the bed, sleeping away amidst a bunch of the comics Michael had made me bring home. His fingers were curled loosely around a sketchpad, and if I titled my head a bit, I could see what seemed to be a freshly completed drawing of Rage and JT. He opened his eyes when I sat down beside him, stretching and smiling when he saw who it was that had disturbed his sleep.

"Hey," he managed through a yawn. "What time is it? Did you just get home?"

"Yeah, just got done with Carl. I didn't see any take-out— did you eat yet?"

He shook his head, dropping it back to the pillow. I took this as an invitation to run my fingers through his tangled hair. "No. You bring something with you?"

"No. We can order something. Chinese sound good?"

He nodded, closing his eyes again. He'd let go of his sketchpad, and I took the opportunity to pick it up and look at it properly.

"This is fucking hot."

He smiled, not even opening his eyes. "Thanks. I was thinking about you when I drew it."

I smiled, too, a little bit sadly as I gazed down at the image he'd created...Rage's fingers in JT's hair, JT's face in Rage's lap, the expression on the latter's face leaving no doubt as to what was taking place. It made me nostalgic, in a weird way. Justin had always given the best fucking blow jobs, and most of that skill seemed to just come naturally, even if I had supplied him with a tip or two in the beginning.

"Yeah? What about me?"

His grin widened, and he laughed softly into the pillow. "What do you think?"

"It's hotter when you tell me," I teased, shoving at him playfully with my leg.

"Mmm...okay..." he laughed again, and I got that usual weird, inexplicable feeling in my chest at the sound. "Um...well, I was thinking about you kissing me, at first."

"Oh?" I murmured, reaching over to rub his back through his T-shirt, slow and easy.

"Yeah, and...you were taking off all my clothes."

"Everything?" I moved slowly, pulling his shirt up his body, revealing the skin of his back inch by inch as I did so. After a moment, I helped him lift up off the pillow so that I could pull off the shirt completely, tossing it aside. I kept up the gentle rubbing motion on his back as he lay down again, then leaned over to press a kiss to his neck. He sighed in contentment, his eyes closed, face half-buried into his pillow.

"Yeah. You felt so good..." he whispered. "You were just...on me...kissing me everywhere..."

I pressed another kiss to his neck, then slowly began trailing them across his shoulders, down his back. "Like this?" I muttered into his skin.

"Mmm...yeah."

"What else?" I never stopped the gentle circles of my hand on his back, even as I peppered his skin with kisses. I had reached his lower back now, and gave the skin just above his jeans a quick lick, making him shiver. "Okay?" I checked, just to make sure.

"Uh-huh."

"What else?"

"Mmm...your cock," he continued, his voice somewhat muffled by the pillow. "I had your cock in my hand."

"Was it hard?"

"Yeah...so hard..." His voice was growing raspy, his breathing becoming slightly uneven as I began to plant little kisses up his spine, intent on making him feel as amazing and comfortable as he possibly could. "Mmm...so good..."

I wasn't sure if he was talking about his earlier fantasy, or what I was doing to him now, but either way worked just fine with me."Then what?" I prompted.

Right now, any possibility of this going wrong seemed so completely...nonexistent. For once, I felt in control of things, as if I could erase any potential for pain by making him feel only pleasure. As if I could actually stop a possible panic attack before it started. As if being pressed against his every muscle gave me the power I needed to keep him calm and feeling safe. In my head, I knew this wasn't true; if he lost it, it would happen in a split-second. There would be no preparation, no chance to bring him back before it happened.

Still, I clung to that sensation of security, because it was sure as hell better than the helplessness I felt every other time things started heating up between us. I felt scared and nervous and out of my element, vulnerable and uncertain and I hated it. Still, in a way, it seemed almost fair that I felt these things. It seemed...right...that I was feeling so much of what Justin was going through, at the exact same moments that he was going through it.

I shook these thoughts from my head, chastising myself for thinking too much when there were so many more interesting things to be concentrating on. Justin was talking, telling me all the things he wanted us to do to each other, his voice low and seductive...hypnotic, almost. And if he was okay, if he was into this, then there was no reason why my head should be anywhere other than here with him.

"Then...I was kissing you...your lips, your chest, everywhere..." He drew a sharp breath as I apparently found just the right spot on his neck to kiss and nuzzle. "And...I started sucking you. You tasted so good...so hot and hard...I miss that."

His muscles tensed beneath me, and my lips stalled for a fraction of a second against his skin. For that moment, as always, I feared the worst. I feared a flashback, feared a meltdown. But then he was shifting his weight, sighing his contentment, and I let out my own breath of relief.

This was the part that I hated most...this constant fear that the next move I made, the next thing I said, would set him off. The guilt when he had one of his panic attacks— as a result of something I'd been doing to him— surpassed even my remorse over lying to him. Knowing that I was even partly responsible for forcing him to relive that experience inside his head one more time...it killed me.

I let out a deep breath against his skin, doing my best to push these thoughts away, as well. "Then what happened? What were you thinking about?"

"I don't remember...I had to stop," he confessed. "I didn't want to jerk off without you here."

Just one more freedom that had been taken from us. From him.

Maybe this therapy thing, though— the actual therapy with Kathy, not the made-up "Carl" bullshit I was spouting to Justin— really was having an effect on me, because the first thing that came to mind when I felt that familiar pain set in was her advice, her voice, telling us to replace the bad with the good. Positive over the negative. There was no denying that sex— or even the simple idea of it— had never been this difficult for either of us. But hell, even a semi-functional, consistently unstable sex life was a step up from where we'd been a month ago. And I'd learned, these last few months more than ever before, to cherish every second.

So, I shook the negative thoughts from my head concentrated on him and only him, sprawled beneath me, relaxed and clearly relishing the attention. So fucking beautiful...waiting and perfect and fuck, I had to touch him.

"I'm here now," I said, whispering the words into his ear like a promise. I trailed a hand down his side, watching the goosebumps crawl over his skin. I wanted to kiss every inch of it.

His breath caught audibly. "Please, Brian...I want to."

I kissed his ear, resting my lips against it. "Roll over."

He didn't hesitate to comply, rolling onto his back and staring up at me in anticipation. I wanted to sink into him, plunge my tongue into his mouth and get lost in his warmth, his kisses. I wanted every inch of our bodies touching, wanted to get high on him..

Even more than that, though, I wanted to see him close his eyes in pleasure, wanted to see his toes curl, to hear my name fall from his lips. Wanted to make him feel nothing but ecstasy in every part of his body. Wanted him to— fuck, I wanted him to stay here, in this loft, in his own mind, with me. I wanted him to have everything he wanted, and I wanted to be the one to give it to him.

"Tell me—"

"—if I need to stop," he finished for me. "I will."

I nodded, mollified, then lowered myself over his body to kiss him. He kissed back hungrily, and any attempts to keep this slow were quickly cast aside. My tongue tangled with his inside his mouth, and soon my shirt had been removed, too, so that both of us were naked from the waist up.

"What do you want?" I asked between kisses. A year ago, this would have been a prompt to get him to talk, to get him to tell me exactly what he wanted me to do to him, just because I would have found it hot to hear the words coming from his lips. Now, it was an honest question; I was never quite sure what he was up for, and lately, I'd come to hate going into sex blind.

His fingers tugged at the top of my pants. "Get them off," he muttered back. I complied, breaking our contact to sit up and pull them off, along with my underwear. He was still looking at me expectantly, so I reached down to do his, too.

Unfortunately, this was usually the hardest part. All at once, as if someone had flipped a switch, our movements became slow, languid— cautious. I cupped his cheek with my palm, stroking his face with my thumb as he held tightly onto my wrist. He was hard— we both were, despite the thick blanket of hesitation that had descended over us. I took a chance and pushed my hips into him, eliciting a moan.

Slowly, I rolled us over so that we were lying on our sides, facing each other, my leg over one of his. I could practically feel the tension between us in the air, begging to be released. I kissed him, pulling him close with a hand on his back. Every move was gentle, deliberate, and I made sure to give him time to protest if he wanted to.

Sometimes, his bravery amazed me. Every time we attempted to have any semblance of sex, there was just so much to deal with...so much for me to deal with, emotionally. Whatever he was going through had to be a hundred times more difficult, and yet...he did it. He pushed his fear aside, every time, for something he wanted. Because to him, it was worth it. _I _was worth it.

And he was worth everything I had.

**~. Justin .~**

I let him roll us to our sides, trying to breathe out my own tension and just let Brian take care of us both. I got the not-altogether-unexpected flurry of butterflies in my stomach when his hand found my ass, cupping it gently in his palm, but then he was kissing me again, and I was hard, and he was making me feel so good, like always, and the nerves failed to matter much.

It kind of pleased me to know that he still found my ass to be one of my greatest physical assets. I'd always loved his ass, too— okay, in addition to every other part of him— but if his favorite non-fucking sexual activity was rimming me (and it was) then mine was easily sucking him off. I'd known, from the very first time I'd ever done it, that it was what I was meant to do— who I was meant to be. I was gay, I liked dick, and I particularly liked sucking Brian Kinney's. It turned me on, got me hard, so much so that sometimes I had to jerk myself off while I was doing it, unable to wait for him to return the favor afterward.

Of course, I now realized that I'd taken all those seconds, minutes, hours with him for granted. I no longer had the pleasure of sex whenever I wanted it, and each day that passed with no further gratification reminded me of that. We'd only gotten off four times since that first night— five if you counted it— though that wasn't for a lack of trying. Sometimes, my painful-as-fuck flashbacks had held us back; other times, it was simply the overwhelming nerves. The times we managed to get past all that were rare treats.

Each and every time there was even the remote possibility of anything happening, I would pray that my mind would cooperate, beg my body to let me have what I wanted so desperately. Despite knowing better, I could never quite keep the anticipation out of my movements; even if I was happy with simply kissing him or being naked with him, there was still always that distant thought of _more._

I tried to take it slow, however, breathing deeply in between our kisses. I groaned when his hand wrapped around my cock, stroking and teasing it expertly. He ran his thumb over the head, and I thrust into his grip, putty in his talented hands.

"Fuck," I muttered as he worked me. I fought to keep my eyes open, fixed on his, both for my own security and because it was just so fucking hot to watch his face when I took his dick into my hand and began to jerk him off. _"Ugh..._God..."

He made some incoherent noise that sounded like it could have been a groan, if it hadn't gotten all choked and gaspy right in the middle. It was times like these, with my fears at bay, that I wondered how it was possible that I kept myself from this so often. It may not have been all it had before, but it was so fucking...just, amazing. Intense and perfect and complicated and just...so worth it. So worth everything.

He tried to press a sloppy kiss to my lips, but ended up missing and getting my chin instead. I leaned over to give him a real kiss, our tongues tangling together, caught up in a dance of their own. And still, he kept up the steady pace of his hand on me, and I did the same, relishing the feeling of his hot, hard dick pulsing in my palm. There was nothing like knowing I was bringing him such pleasure, and nothing like knowing that it felt good to do it.

It wasn't long before I could feel that tension building up inside me; I was close, so fucking close. He was everywhere, the most amazing heat and pressure, and I was moaning my appreciation, and it all just felt so good, so perfectly right in every way...

"God...fuck...fuck me, Brian..."

I felt his hand still on my dick, and it took a moment for my brain to register anything more than that the pleasure had stopped.

My eyes had slipped shut despite themselves, but they fluttered open now to fix almost accusatorially on him. "Brian—" He looked fine; he was staring at me with a weird look on his face, but I could find no indication of what had caused him to stop. "What are you doing?"

"You didn't..." He looked hesitant, anxious even, as the heat of his hand left my cock. "You didn't mean it...right?"

I continued to look at him blankly, the hesitation on his face, something I couldn't identify in his eyes as he held my gaze. "Mean...?" And then suddenly, as if someone had flipped on a light bulb inside my head, I got it. I'd asked him to...I'd requested that he fuck me. Shit. "I didn't...no, I was just..."

He nodded. "I thought so. Just— making sure."

"It was just...what came out," I tried to explain myself. It was something I'd requested a million times before, and in the heat of the moment, it had just sort of...slipped.

He swallowed hard, avoiding my eyes now. I didn't like it. "Yeah. I figured."

My throat felt suddenly dry, and I shifted rather awkwardly on the bed, dimly realizing that my hand was still around his dick. I let him go, something like false bravado— or maybe that was sheer recklessness— stirring inside my chest. "Do you...want to try?"

He took a moment to answer, and I got the impression he was thinking it over carefully. He was almost more tentative about these things than I was. "Do you?" he finally asked.

Fuck. Fuck, this was just so...wrong. Me and Brian, playing I-want-to-if-you-want-to. One of my favorite things about our relationship— or at least, it used to be— was our insatiable desire for each other. We could never get enough, could never get our fill. It made me feel hot and sexy and treasured by him— loved by him— because I was the one he fucked a hundred times. I was the one he kissed, the one who got to stick around afterward and talk to him and be held by him and fall asleep with him inside me.

Christ, I missed having him inside me.

And if it was a question of whether or not I wanted it— of course I did. Of course I wanted to try, wanted to have that back. But it wasn't. It was a question of could we and should we and did we dare, and that wasn't nearly as easy a question to answer.

"I don't know," I said honestly. We'd only been somewhat sexual for a few weeks now, and even that wasn't a steady, regular thing. More often than not, it ended in misery and frustration. "Maybe."

He sighed. "Let me rephrase...do you think you can? Or should?"

I pressed my lips together, eyes on his chest, and didn't answer. He let out a deep breath, pulling me even closer and pressing a kiss to my head, nuzzling my hair.

"I miss having you inside me," I whispered into his neck. For a moment, he just lay there, resting his chin against the top of my head. But then he was moving, pulling away and kissing me, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. It wasn't the slow, leisurely pace of before, but determined, hungry, as if he was trying to devour me.

His hand was trailing over my arm, my lower back, just inside the crack of my ass. I jumped a little as his finger brushed against my hole, but he just held me to him even tighter, letting me sneak my leg in between his so that we were completely entwined.

My breath caught in my throat at the sensations he was causing in me. His finger kept tracing my hole, making me want him in me even more, so that soon I was humping his thigh, my dick hard and leaking.

At first, I didn't realize he was even saying anything. But then I heard his whisper over the white buzz of my own pleasure. "Imagine me there," he was saying, speaking the words into my skin, as if he expected me to simply absorb them. "Imagine me inside you."

Finally, he seemed to take pity on me, and released his grip on me so that he could reach between us and take my cock back into his hand. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, and soon I was coming all over him. It didn't take me long these days; in some ways, it was like I was an inexperienced virgin all over again. Everything felt so new sometimes, like it was happening for the first time, like we hadn't done it all hundreds of times before. It didn't bother me too much— I was just fucking happy to even have any semblance of a sex life at this point. But it was a strange idea, having to 'discover' it all over again.

And I guess that was essentially what were doing. I had no idea what I liked anymore, really. What had happened had changed so much of who I was— it made sense that sex would change drastically for me as well, maybe more dramatically than anything else. Things I'd once loved, I could very well hate from now on. Things that had been no big deal for me before might be things I could never handle again. I doubted I'd be into many of our 'games' anymore— I couldn't imagine ever feeling comfortable with being tied up or being gagged or blindfolded or anything like that, even if it was only Brian doing it to me. It saddened me, to think that we'd lost that...not even really the sex itself, hot as it had been, but our creativity where it had been concerned. Our freedom. Maybe someday, I'd feel differently, but right now, it was all still so scary and new and I was still trying to figure things out. I knew I liked having his hand on me, and that was about it.

Well, I also knew that I loved touching him, too. And I loved having him kiss me, loved having his hand join mine around his dick, loved having him assist me in jerking him off until his cum joined mine in the mess of sticky residue covering us both. He moaned his appreciation, stealing kisses between gasps. Afterward, we just lay there, letting our breathing slow, coming down from the high of our respective orgasms.

"Fuck," I muttered, shifting a little in the uncomfortably sticky mess, barely even caring that we both desperately needed a shower at this point. I'd finally stopped falling apart so completely after sex, but it still left me physically and emotionally spent.

"Yeah."

It was quiet for a while. He played idly with our hands, entwining them on top of his chest while I closed my eyes and just enjoyed the euphoric bliss that accompanied these moments. Five. Five times in less than a month we'd done this. Well, four for him. I'd sort of lost it last week after he'd gotten me off, and I hadn't been able to help him finish. I'd apologized later, but he'd brushed it off as usual, kissing away my concerns. But still...five times in about three weeks. Holy fuck.

"Next time," I said, not opening my eyes. "We'll try next time."

"Yeah," he agreed softly. I knew even then that neither of us meant it, but I was glad to hear him go along with the fantasy anyway. "Next time."

I nodded, starting to drift off now, warm and sticky and sleepy. "Do you miss it? Being inside me?"

He took so long to answer, I was almost asleep before his voice pulled me out of it. "Not for the reasons I thought I would."

I mulled this over as we lay there on the edge of consciousness. I kissed his arm where my head rested, and curled my fingers around his. "Next time," I promised again. It was as empty as promises came, but I knew he'd accept the hopeful assurance anyway. We both knew that 'next time' could have meant anywhere from a month to a year to ten...but we could hope, could pretend that next time everything would be better, that we would be closer than ever to what we wanted.

"Next time," he repeated, giving my hand a squeeze.

I curled closer, nestled in the crook of his arm, and fell asleep.


	33. Reckless

**~. Justin .~**

The first time it happened, there was no moment of startling terror. No breathtaking moment of relief. I didn't jerk awake with tears already running down my cheeks. There was nothing to cry over— nothing to be afraid of.

My third night without a sleeping pill, I just sort of rolled over and opened my eyes, saw that the clock read two fifty-seven in the morning, and realized that I was now awake for no apparent reason.

Well, okay, there probably was a reason. Most likely something that had to do with sleeping late that morning and going to bed at around ten that night. The whole reason I'd even been in bed in the first place was because I'd been fooling around with Brian, and then we'd both been sort of sleepy afterward, so we'd decided to call it an early night. Or, well, that had been decided for us when we'd both fallen asleep, barely managing to pull the duvet over us first.

It was the third night this week that I'd decided to forgo the ritual of taking a sleeping pill before bed. Well, technically, I guess it was the second time. The first time hadn't been much of a choice; I'd honestly forgotten it.

But then— I hadn't had a nightmare all that night. Not one. And then I'd begun to wonder...just how necessary were these pills?

So, the next night, I'd decided to test myself. I'd skipped the pill on purpose, and once again, I'd slept peacefully through the night. I'd dreamed, and that in itself was an odd occurrence for me. If I did dream on the nights I took my pills, I never remembered them in the morning, and Brian never said anything about any thrashing or mumbling in my sleep, so I assumed that I suffered no disturbances under the influence of my medication. Basically, I took the pills every night, and then about a half an hour later, I felt nothing, thought nothing, dreamed nothing. I was lost to the world.

But without them...well, the dreams were back. But they weren't the terrifying nightmares that had plagued me for the longest time— the reason I'd gotten the pills in the first place. These dreams were what you'd call ordinary, I guess. I dreamed that Brian was adopting Emmett, and the two of them were moving into Vanguard's lobby because there was so much work to be done. I dreamed that Debbie had invented a new recipe at the diner and was accidentally poisoning the customers with it. I even dreamed about my favorite fictional heroes, Rage and JT, something about saving the world by convincing everyone to have gay sex.

I'd wanted to mention that one to Brian, but in the end, something had stopped me. If I told him I was dreaming again, he'd deduce that I wasn't taking my pills, and I doubted he'd be quite so willing to risk my nightly emotional well-being for an experiment.

I, however, didn't share such trepidation. Each night that I went without one of those tiny little capsules of dreamless sleep, it proved something, if only to myself. It proved that I could make it truly on my own, that I could get along just fine without the help of drugged sleep every night.

Anyway, tonight was the first I'd actually woken up. I couldn't remember any dreams I might have been having, so it didn't seem likely that I'd been having a nightmare, as I'd always seemed to recall those with vivid clarity.

I sighed, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. The thought crossed my mind to wake Brian— he'd never complained before when I'd woken up him up for sex, after all— but then logic set in, dismissing the idea immediately. For one thing, there was about a ten percent chance that we would actually get as far as sex without me having to stop us. And for another, this idea completely ruined my 'don't let Brian figure out I haven't been taking my medicine,' plan.

So, waking him up was definitely out. I considered drawing, but I'd already been sketching most of the night and my hand was starting to seriously ache. I supposed I could watch TV, but I really didn't feel like leaving the comfort of the bed, and there was rarely anything good on at this hour anyway. Basically, I was awake at three AM with nothing to do except lie here and hope I fell back asleep at some point before I had to get up.

I closed my eyes, rolling over and attempting to get comfortable again. Brian had his back to me, so using him as a pillow was out of the question. I punched the pillow under my head into shape and settled down on it, deciding that I'd definitely take my pill again tomorrow night. I didn't think Brian checked my medication bottles as studiously as he once had, but he was bound to notice in a few weeks if I still had a full bottle left when it was supposed to be nearly empty. And of course, there was always the possibility of having one of _those _nightmares again, and that was just an experience I had no desire to ever repeat.

So, I'd take them as usual for the rest of the week, I decided, then next week I'd try to skip a few again. I'd have to figure something out later on; I didn't like the idea of hiding the pills I was supposed to have taken at all, but just for now, I wanted this without having Brian worry about it. It would be over the moment I had a nightmare, I knew, but...maybe that wouldn't even happen. Maybe nothing would, and then in a few weeks, I could tell him everything. And if it worked, if I made it okay, I _would_ tell him, and then we could talk to Kathy about maybe getting rid of the pills for good. Maybe I could mention getting off the antidepressants to Brian, too, and get a feel for his reaction.

From somewhere to my right, he gave a little snort in his sleep, and I smiled to myself, curling up against his back. I closed my eyes, warm and comfortable, and let myself drift back off to sleep.

~.~

Up until a few weeks ago, I'd quietly resented the fact that life outside of the loft existed for me only in the form of being babysat by Daphne and my mother, classes a few days a week, and dinners at Deb's on the weekends. Occasionally, there would be a brunch at Mel and Lindsay's, a dinner out with Brian, and of course, the weekly sessions with Kathy.

But as Daphne had pointed out to me just a couple of weeks ago, we never really did anything _fun _anymore, like...just for the sake of having it. Mostly, we just made the best of the time we spent together in her apartment, and I could never quite shake the nagging little voice in my head on those occasions that reminded me of the reason I was even there.

Brunches and dinners with the family were great— the one thing that I actually did for the sake of enjoyment these days— but it was sort of like going to a movie and only being allowed to watch the previews. In other words, it was fun and great being around them all like that again, but I never got to stick around for the really good parts. I didn't get to go out to Woody's with them, or go out clubbing, or do much of anything with them other than eat dinner with them once a week.

This, of course, had been a niggling thought in the back of my mind for a while now. However, without the daily trips to my mom's and Daphne's, I was realizing now just how much freedom I'd had all along.

It was starting to drive me crazy. Going to class a few times a week, and therapy, and dinners every once in a while just wasn't enough. Not when Brian was working all day, and meeting with his therapist, and occasionally going out with the guys. Not when Daphne was telling me about the parties she'd been to recently, and my mom was going out to lunch with old college friends she'd run into, and the guys were all going out, having fun, doing shit while I got left behind. It was like, everyone was living their lives while I was standing still, and now that I was actually stuck in the loft for the majority of the week, I was realizing exactly how trapped I really was.

"Let's go out to dinner again tonight," I suggested on Sunday morning. Admittedly, dinner was a long while off, but I had this burning sensation beneath my skin, urging me to get out and fucking _do _something. We'd already gone out to dinner once that week, to that little Italian place we liked, with the good salad and the gay waiter. All in all, I supposed I wasn't really stuck in the loft_ quite _as often as I felt like I was. Maybe I just hated the fact that it so often felt like I was the only one in the world who couldn't just go out and do something whenever I felt like it. Each time, it had to be this big, momentous occasion, and most times I only ever went to the houses of friends and family.

As terrified as I so often was in public, it was probably extremely odd that I actually _missed _people. Being around them, being in a crowd. Sweaty bodies moving to a single beat, or friends around a pool table. Someplace I hadn't gone in a while, someplace that wasn't one of my "safe places," as Kathy called them. I liked to think of them more as my necessary crutches.

"Dinner?" Brian repeated, not looking up from his magazine, where he'd had his nose buried for the better part of the last hour. "That Italian place again?"

I rolled my eyes at his tone, already knowing where his thoughts were heading. "I promise we can go before seven, to comply with your ridiculous carb rule. Happy?"

I'd plopped down on the couch beside him, prompting him to look up from his magazine article at last. He smirked, his hand reaching for my inner thigh and giving it a squeeze. "Come over here and ask me that again."

I snickered and maneuvered out of his reach. "I was being serious."

His tongue came out to dart teasingly at his lips. "So was I."

I leaned forward and captured his lips with mine, plunging my tongue into his mouth. I smiled into the kiss, pulling away only when I felt my stomach grumble, clearly protesting the fact that it hadn't been fed since the night before.

"I'm hungry," I said, sitting up at last, out of the reach of his lips.

"I noticed."

He was attempting to shove his hand up my shirt, and while usually I would welcome this, the part of my brain that controlled my desire for food was temporarily overpowering the part that controlled my desire for Brian. It was nearly noon, after all, and I hadn't eaten all morning.

I took a deep breath and, feeling slightly crazy, slightly reckless, but a hundred percent determined, took the plunge.

"Let's go to the diner."

Well, that got his attention.

"What?" he asked, his hand stilling beneath my shirt as he sat up straight and looked at me with an expression that suggested he didn't quite believe what he was hearing, no matter how much he wanted to. "The diner? On a Sunday afternoon?"

I wasn't sure what made me think of it. Maybe because this was simply like so many other lazy Sunday afternoons we'd shared, grabbing a bite to eat before going grocery shopping, or just coming back here and fucking our brains out. Maybe I was just tired of wanting what I felt I couldn't have. Or maybe it was for no good reason at all. Maybe it was a tremendously bad idea.

Maybe I didn't care.

I shrugged. "Yeah...I know it'll be crowded. I just thought it sounded good. I miss diner food, and...I want to go." There it was, plain and simple. Whatever the reason, I wanted this.

I could see the battle taking place inside his head. Watched his obvious distress war with the desire to open ourselves up to one more freedom.

I fucking wanted that one more freedom.

He took a deep breath of his own, and offered me an encouraging grin. "Then let's go."

And it was mine to take.

~.~

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Brian asked for the umpteenth time. I couldn't blame him for worrying. Beneath the bravado I'd done my best to muster up on the way here, I could feel the nerves kicking in, now, with my hand on the door handle of the jeep, our destination just yards away.

"Yeah," I said, but my voice sounded uncertain, even to my own ears. I felt his hand come to rest on my knee, and I tore my eyes away from the large group of stragglers a little way off, near the entrance to the diner. I'd barely even noticed when he'd shut off the jeep, had taken in nothing but the exceedingly large amount of people all congregating in the relatively small parking lot.

I tilted my head upward to receive his kiss, and he surprised me by wrapping a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me closer so that he could shove his tongue in my mouth. His fingers took their natural course up into my hair, grasping onto a handful and angling my head to kiss me more thoroughly. I heard the click of his seat belt being released, then felt him fumbling for mine, taking care to brush his hands along my thighs as often as possible.

It was amazing, how he could make me forget about everything, just chase away all those nervous feelings and make everything good again. His touches were light and comfortable and familiar, soothing away the tension in my body and replacing it with desire.

There was another audible click as he finally released my seat belt. His lips were at my neck, my hands at the skin of his back beneath his shirt as his body pressed closer and closer, climbing over into my seat, on top of me, pressing me back against the door. I felt my dick stir in my pants as he returned to my mouth, darting his tongue out to lick at my lips before sliding it between them. We moved somewhat awkwardly— while it had certainly ever stopped us before, there really wasn't a whole lot of room in here for this. I groaned a little and shifted my weight, trying to get the pressure off my left shoulder blade. Brian sat up a little, evidently able to distinguish between moans of pleasure and pain.

"Get the lever," he instructed, doing his best to give me room to maneuver.

I reached beneath the seat as best as I could in the position I was in and tugged at the little lever I found. The seat plunged backward, and we happily rearranged ourselves on the now reclined seat.

His hands played across the skin of my stomach and sides, pushing at my shirt until it was bunched up around my chest. God, how many times had we done this? Made out or fucked in his jeep like horny teenagers? Well, okay, technically, I _was _still a teenager, but Brian wasn't. And though he'd always kept condoms in his glove compartment, I don't think I'd ever seen them disappear quite as fast as when we had started fucking in his jeep. I was the only one he ever absolutely _had _to fuck before pulling out of a parking lot because he just couldn't wait— I was the only one he could simply never resist.

His thigh had wedged itself in between my legs, rubbing against me just the right way to make my cock grow even harder. I could feel his own erection through his jeans, and longed to slide down his pants and take him in my hand again, feel him pulse in my grip. I just wanted to touch him, to have him, to have all of him. In my hand or my mouth or anywhere I could, I just wanted Brian. I wanted that skin-on-skin electric shock I got every single time, and I wanted to make him come, the way I was getting to do more and more often lately.

He groaned and rocked his body against mine, his hips thrusting into me. I gasped, my hands in his hair, my head thrown back, too turned on to think straight. There were people all around us. They could see us, if they only glanced in through the window. Not that that had ever stopped us before, either, but still— this was still so sacred, so new again, that I didn't want to share it with anyone else quite yet. It was just that I'd been scared, looking outside and seeing all those people, and then Brian had started kissing me and then the last thing on my mind was fear and I just wanted to hang onto that, though I had to admit, the idea of doing anything with him right now was sort of nerve-wracking, and I was sure it would only become scarier the further we took this...

"Brian..." I muttered, pushing lightly at his shoulders to stop him, when—

"Brian? _Justin?"_

We both jerked up at the _thud _of a palm hitting the window, Brian nearly falling off the seat in his haste and shock. I sat up on my elbows, gaping slightly at the familiar faces staring in at us through the window; Brian and I both fumbled for the button to roll it down.

"Oh my God! What are you two doing here?" Emmett leaned down to peer through the open window, grinning widely.

"You really have to ask?" Ted's face joined Em's, taking in the sight of our disheveled hair and clothes.

"We came to get lunch," I said, extremely aware of the fact that Brian was still on top of me, and that I was still almost painfully hard. I willed my dick to go down, marveling at the idea that I could pray for an erection for months and then wish it away not even two months later. Though I had to admit, there were plenty of better places to do this than in the front seat of Brian's jeep with our friends' heads peeking inside at our bedraggled appearances.

"Guys, are you coming?" I groaned inwardly as Michael appeared behind them a moment later, apparently not realizing what the hold up was.

"Are you talking to them or us?" Ted asked cheekily, moving aside so that Michael could catch a glimpse of me and Brian as we tried in vain to make ourselves presentable. Michael's face lit up as the two of us climbed awkwardly from the jeep. I was pretty sure Brian was regretting his choice of tight clothing right about then.

"Brian! Justin!" he exclaimed as Ted snorted and Emmett gave a cackle of glee at the sight of us. I was starting to wish we'd stayed in the jeep, though there was nothing to make you lose a hard on faster than being gaped at by your friends, I supposed. Well, unless it was being gaped at by Debbie, but I was pretty sure she was still inside the diner. At least I hoped so. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Getting lunch," said Brian, in that casually dismissive tone he had that plainly said he couldn't care less if they were laughing at him or not, because he was Brian Kinney and he was never embarrassed about such things. Particularly when they meant he was on his way to getting laid, which might not have exactly been he case, but they didn't necessarily know that.

"We'll meet you inside," said Michael, rolling his eyes a little, a smile tugging at his mouth.

"Whenever you get there," said Emmett, winking.

"That could be a while," said Ted. "Should we have them start dinner for you now?"

Their laughter and good-natured jeering could be heard all the way into the diner. Brian shook his head, chuckling a little himself and swinging an arm around my shoulders as he'd done a million times before.

"Guess it's good to know that some things never change," he said, tongue firmly in cheek as he smirked at me.

I shook my head, huffing a laugh of my own. "Guess so." My arm snaked around his waist, and together, we made our way into the Liberty Diner.

**~. Brian .~**

The group in the parking lot near the jeep had started to thin, and he only tensed up when we stepped foot through the door into the admittedly overcrowded diner. I felt him go rigid at my side, and hugged him a little closer, wondering, not for the first time, if this was perhaps a bad idea. Then again, the label of "Bad Fucking Idea" had never really done much to deter Justin from anything, so it was probably irrelevant anyway.

"It's okay," I whispered, tugging him to my side as a couple with mutually bad haircuts passed by us hand-in-hand. Shit, he was freezing up. "They're just people, Justin. You're safe here," I said quietly into his ear, so that only he could catch my whispered assurances.

I watched him— watched him swallow his fear, take a deep breath, and bury it deep. Fuck, he was so fucking...just, so brave. I could never do it. I could never have the balls he proved he had on a daily basis. I could never just push past every instinctive fear inside me the way he did.

"Let's just...sit down, please."

I agreed, leading him swiftly through the diner, hoping Deb wouldn't catch sight of us before we made it to the booth.

"Hey, they made it. Just in time for the Lovebird Lunch Special, too," came Ted's not-entirely-unexpected jibe as we slid in next to our friends.

"Ted? Do me a favor and order yourself a side of 'shut the fuck up' with your meal."

My biting comeback wasn't completely unforeseen, either, or at least it shouldn't have been, but maybe Ted caught the reason for the extra sting in my words, the way my arm fell around Justin's shoulders, the way he was trying to press himself as close as possible to me, because for once in his life he actually shut the fuck up.

"So," Emmett interceded swiftly, "besides the prospect of a meal at this fine five-star establishment, what brings you boys out and about today?"

"We were hungry; they serve food here," I said, as if explaining to a four year old that one and one made two. "It's a complicated concept, I know, but I'm sure you can get someone to explain it to you if you have trouble."

Emmett rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get out even a single bitingly sarcastic word, all our ears were simultaneously pierced by a high-pitched shriek.

"Holy shit! _Sunshine! Brian!"_

A moment later, Liberty Avenue's favorite waitress and mother-figure had my face in her clutches and was pressing a bright red kiss to my cheek. While I rubbed at the lipstick stain with a napkin, she leaned across me and planted a similar smooch on Justin's cheek.

"Thought you'd slip in without telling me, huh, you little assholes?" she chided us, but she was grinning. I slid a napkin to Justin as she finally straightened up; he snatched it up gratefully, wiping at his cheeks.

"Well, you can't blame us for trying," I sighed dramatically, earning myself an icy glare.

"Wow, Deb, you're certainly looking— colorful— today," Emmett noted. Now that I wasn't being bombarded by shrill shrieks and ruby red kisses, I was able to stop and take her outfit in myself.

The effect of her bright green shirt, purple pants, red lipstick, button-adorned vest, and assorted jewelry was only heightened by the rainbow scarf she wore around her neck. Honestly, it looked like Emmett had given her bits and pieces of various Halloween costumes from over the years and told her to make an outfit out of it. Either that or a Pride festival had thrown up on her.

"Don't tell me. You've joined a theater class at the community college, and you're auditioning later for the part of a fashion-challenged clown?" The sting of her hand at the back of my head was both highly painful and oddly welcomed, in a fucked up sort of way. Some things were definitely destined to forever remain the same, and that was somewhat of a comfort.

"Nice of you to stop by, asshole," she groused as I rubbed my head. "I told you that you'd better get your ass up here for lunch more often. Can't remember _why, _but that's besides the point."

I rubbed the back of my head pointedly. "Well, you certainly can't beat the place for hospitality."

She shook her head at me. "Don't push it. If you'd actually bothered to drop in once in a while, maybe you would have noticed the fliers."

"Fliers? What— ?" Oh shit. There were fliers involved in this?

"End the Violence," Michael interrupted me, gesturing. Sure enough, there were no less than half a dozen green and yellow fliers taped to the wall next to our booth. Actually, now they'd been pointed out to me, I noticed several dozen more of them— in every color of the rainbow— adorning the walls of the entire diner.

I squinted, trying to make out the description beneath the heading. "Stop crimes against members of the LGBT community. Peaceful solutions to bashings and inter-community threats must be reached. Do your part to end the violence."

"Tonight's the first meeting at the Gay and Lesbian Center," explained Debbie. "I'm just doing my part."

"By dressing up like a Pride float?"

"By dressing in every color of the rainbow," she clarified. "Getting attention drawn to the cause."

"If you wanted attention drawn to the cause, you should have dressed up in those fliers," I said. "Right now you just look like—"

"I think it's a good idea," Justin interrupted me. "The fliers, I mean. The meetings."

I expected Debbie to beam in satisfaction, but instead she just sort of smiled wanly. And it wasn't just her; across the booth, Ted was shifting in his seat, and Emmett and Michael were exchanging glances, whatever that was about.

"We've fucking missed you around here, kiddo," Debbie said softly. It might have been my imagination, but there was a very real possibility that I'd just heard her voice actually break a little. "Tell you what— you order anything you want off the menu today. It's on the house."

I don't know what it was about a truly emotional Debbie that I found so...odd. Distressing, in a way. I mean, she was always emotional, but the possibility of her crying or anything...it was extremely unsettling. Debbie was the one who dished out the advice, the admonishments...when she fell apart, it felt like Liberty Avenue itself was crumbling.

Luckily, it took her about ten seconds to compose herself and bounce back.

"Thanks, Deb. Uh...I'll just have a sandwich," said Justin. "Ham, I guess."

"Sandwich, fries, soda, and some lemon bars," said Debbie, scribbling a few notes on her pad. "Got it."

"But I didn't say..."

"You're gonna eat it and you're gonna like it," she interrupted sternly. Now there was the Deb I was used to— the one I depended on to be there, doling out lipstick kisses and sarcastic remarks. "I don't know what the fuck you've been feeding him, asshole, but he's lost at least ten pounds since the last time I saw him."

"That was a week ago," I pointed out, but predictably, she ignored me.

"So, what'll it be for the rest of you boys?"

One by one, we ordered our respective meals, and soon enough, Deb was bustling off to the next table. Still, she shot unabashed grins in our direction every chance she got, each one prompting a remark from one of the guys, or Emmett to reach across the table and pinch Justin's cheek in imitation of the diner's head waitress.

"I wouldn't be talking if I were you," I said to Michael when he dared to make a joke of his own. "You've got her genes."

Lunch itself was comfortable enough. All things considered, I'd say it was as close to old times as the situation allowed. Sitting around, eating lunch with our friends, bickering and teasing and joking and just having fun. I mean, yeah, we had the dinners, and the visits, and the phone calls, but...there was something about the diner, something normal, something..._ours. _Hell, this was practically our place, wasn't it? How many times had we stopped by in the wee hours of the morning after a night at Babylon? How many breakfasts before work, or weekend lunches had we shared here?

And sitting here, eating and talking with our friends, it was like Sapperstein and all the crap that came along with him just faded away into some unimportant part of our lives that simply didn't matter in this moment. He no longer mattered where life inside the loft was concerned, and we'd finally claimed this place back from him, too. We all chatted idly about nothing in particular, and I sat with my arm around Justin's shoulders the whole time.

I'd happily throw myself in front of a bus before admitting it to Debbie, but I'd missed the diner. I'd missed meals with the guys and shitty coffee and, oddly, even getting slapped in the head on a regular basis. (The thought crossed my mind to mention that probably unhealthy thought to Kathy on Monday.) I'd missed the nauseating color scheme of the place, and bright red wigs and tranny waitresses. I'd missed the entire atmosphere, and though I'd never completely _stopped _coming here, my visits were a lot less frequent, and still, it never carried quite the same ambiance alone as when Justin was by my side. Even now, he tensed every time the door opened, or when someone passed by the table, but I kept my arm around his shoulders, and he seemed okay for the most part, held protectively against my side.

He even managed to force down most of his lunch— a true feat, taking into account the platefuls of various snacks and treats that Debbie kept bringing over every ten minutes or so. Across the table, Ted and Emmett were feeding each other some fries, all but drooling over each other in the extremely disgusting and uncomfortable manor that only those two could manage, and I found myself appreciating the fact that Ben had had a previous obligation and couldn't join us. If anyone could give Theodore and Emmett a run for their money in the Most Sickening Couple category, it was Mikey and the Professor. Justin and I may have constantly made out in public. And groped each other in public. And fucked in semi-private places— in public. But we did not coo at each other as though one of us was an infant and call each other sweetie-boo. That was just crossing a line, though apparently Emmett didn't seem to think so at all. Nor, unfortunately, did Ted.

Finally, Debbie seemed to realize that if she force-fed Justin any more lemon bars, he'd explode, and stopped bringing plates of them over to the table. I was pretty sure Ted and Emmett were three seconds away from feeding each other the last one of those, too, and was grateful when Michael snatched it up instead.

Eventually, Theodore and Emmett seemed to decide that they'd made me nauseous enough, and said their goodbyes, having paint shopping or curtain shopping or dildo shopping or some such shit to attend to. I'd sort of tuned them out when they'd started their infantile cooing again. Justin and I sat there talking with Michael a while longer, the two of them picking at the remaining fries left on our plates.

Not long after Ted and Emmett left, Michael's cell phone rang, jarring him out of a rambling complaint about some regular at the comic shop. He excused himself, and by the cheery, somewhat flirty way he answered the phone, I figured it was safe to assume that it was Ben.

"I have to piss," I said quietly to Justin. "You want to come, or you think you'll be okay here?"

"I think I'll manage," he said, elbowing me gently. I hesitated, unwilling to leave him alone, but he simply kissed me reassuringly. I let my lips linger on his for a few moments, but when I finally slid out of the booth, I couldn't help but notice as he pushed himself against the wall, as far away from the diner crowd as possible. I glanced over my shoulder once more as I stepped into the bathroom before the door swung shut behind me.

**~. Justin .~ **

I sat, fidgeting with a fork, doing my absolute best to keep calm while Brian was away.

It wasn't that I thought I was in any danger, exactly. It was just...well, I didn't know that I _wasn't. _

When I was seventeen, I'd come down to Liberty Avenue alone, hoping to have some hot random stranger pick me up and take me home with him. Hoping to have him take my virginity.

When I was a high school senior, I'd gotten tired of being bullied by some asshole closet case, and fought back, physically, verbally...and I'd gotten under his skin, in a dangerous way.

And then there was that job, that stupid dancer gig. The one that had cost me so much in the end.

My point is...I'd never been very good at keeping myself safe. Yeah, the thing with Brian had turned out great. But what if it hadn't? What if I'd gone home with the wrong person? What if they'd treated me the way Sapperstein had, or the way Hobbes had? I could have easily had my virginity forcibly taken from me, instead of willingly given. I could have been fucking killed that night, and not even be standing here today. The world was, as I knew only too well, a cold, ruthless place at times.

And then with Hobbes...fuck, I'd been even more stupid then. Goading him— provoking him. And I'd nearly died because of it. Being who I was and refusing to put up with his shit had nearly cost me my life. It had cost me a hand that worked the way it was supposed to, and it had cost me peaceful sleep. It had cost me the ability to walk out the fucking front door for a long time. I mean, he'd fucking tried to _murder _me...that changed a person. How could it not?

And then that party...what had happened there...you'd think after going through so much, I'd have _learned,_ I'd have been more careful, but I hadn't. And I'd suffered the consequences for that choice, too. It may have been their faults— I could accept that as my truth— but there was still no denying the fact that if I hadn't been there in the first place, it wouldn't have happened. If I hadn't agreed to work that party, I never would have become the party favor.

And each time— each and every time— I'd been completely oblivious. I never saw it coming. Luckily, I'd been perfectly safe with Brian that first night, but I'd never really stopped to consider the fact that I might have been making a fatal mistake. I'd never even _dreamed _that someone would try to kill me at my fucking high school prom. And the Sap— despite my misgivings, despite all the warning signals at that party— I hadn't seen that one coming, either.

So, what if I was making such a mistake now? What if by leaving the loft, leaving my haven, I was putting myself in danger? What if someone came through that door right now and, for some unknown reason, wanted to hurt me? I couldn't handle it. I couldn't handle one more time, that I was sure of. I may have been able to come back from this, and the bashing, more or less, but...if it ever happened again, if _anything _like this ever happened again...I'd die. I just wouldn't be able to take it. It seemed I'd finally lost that sense of invincibility I'd once had, that assumption that I would always be safe. Maybe Sapperstein and his friends had finished what Chris Hobbes had started. Maybe Chris hadn't _quite _knocked it out of me, so Gary had decided I'd needed it fucked out of me instead. Whatever lesson it was they'd wanted to teach me, I figured I'd learned it well enough by now.

It was exactly these types of thoughts that prevented me from going out whenever I wanted, or without familiar people by my side. I was finally to the point where I felt safe enough inside the loft by myself, but outside those walls...anything could happen. Anyone could do anything to me, and just like before, like all the other times, I'd be powerless to stop it. Fuck, I hated that feeling.

My eyes wandered across the multicolored fliers on the walls, the anti-violence ones. I gently detached one of the yellow ones from the wall. 'Bashings and inter-community violence,' it said. I wondered what that meant...'inter-community violence.' Queer-on-queer violence, maybe? Maybe something like what I'd been through, at the hands of fellow gay men? If that was, indeed, what it meant, I figured they were right to bring it up, the community violence thing. Didn't we have enough to deal with, being hated and oppressed by narrow-minded straight people, without being shaken internally by fellow queers and asshole closet cases with bats?

I was shaken from these rather depressing thoughts when Michael plopped down into the booth opposite me, flipping his cell phone closed.

"Sorry," he said, grinning. "That was Ben, wanting to know what we were having for dinner. Where'd Brian go?"

"Bathroom," I answered, noting the way his grin lingered a bit around the corners of his mouth. Ben had that effect on him, I guess. I'd never really had all that much to do with Michael's boyfriends, but Ben seemed to be good for him. Brian seemed to like him a lot more than that doctor he used to date, anyway, and he'd been kind to me, when I'd asked him about being HIV positive, all those months ago.

"Oh. Hey, you okay?" His eyes dropped to the bright yellow flier in my hand. "Oh, yeah...that."

"End The Violence, huh?"

"Yeah," he said, twirling a spoon between his fingers. "I don't know if you've heard...there have been a couple of bashings lately. Not anything like you went through with...well...but they still got pretty banged up."

I shook my head. Fuck. See? Cold, ruthless, unfair fucking world. What had their crimes been, the victims of these latest attacks? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Pissing off some crazy asshole by holding hands in public? Daring to be who they were? Innocent things. Seemingly harmless things, like dancing at a high school prom. "Are they going to be okay?"

He nodded. "Fortunately, they're supposed to make a full recovery. But the GLC is up in arms, and you know Ma...she wanted to call every PFLAG chapter in the country when she heard."

I smiled, feeling a warm burst of emotion towards Deb. "Of course she did."

"Yeah. It's just that— I think it's hit her pretty hard," said Michael quietly. "Don't tell her, but I actually saw her crying about it once. I think...well..."

"What?" I prompted when he trailed off.

"Nothing," he muttered.

"What?" I persisted. "Michael?"

He sighed. "Just that, I think...part of the reason it's hit her so hard is because of...well, you," he said, the apologetic note in his voice not going unnoticed. "She's watched you go through a lot, we all have...you and Brian both. And I think these two kids getting bashed has just sort of...brought it all back up for her. And they haven't caught the guys yet, and that makes it even worse, and of course, even if they do catch them, there's no guarantee—"

"That they'll pay," I finished for him bitterly.

"Well...yeah."

"It's fucked, isn't it?" I said darkly. "That they can do _anything— _anyone can do anything they fucking please, and sometimes..."

"Justice isn't served," finished Michael. "Yeah. I like to think karma takes care of them eventually, that what goes around comes around..."

I snorted. "Karma, right." As far as I was aware, karma just didn't work that way. Justice didn't happen the way it was supposed it, at least in my experience. People could try to kill you— physically, emotionally— and that was just the way life worked. I knew better than to think for a second that Hobbes and Sapperstein might have lost even a moment's sleep over the things they'd done.

He shrugged. "It sucks, but...what else can we do but hold on and hope that it works out?"

I shook my head, staring down at the bright yellow flier. And what else was there? Shit happened. Fucking horrible shit that should never happen to anyone. And who paid the price? The innocent people it happened to, or the assholes who caused the pain in the first place? Justice was far from infallible. "I don't know. It's just— hard."

He seemed to hesitate, twirling his spoon between his fingers. "Hey, Brian hasn't...talked to you or anything, has he?"

"What do you mean, 'talked to me'?" I frowned.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "I just meant...he hasn't talked to you about any of this?"

"About how unfair life is? He's done his fair share of complaining," I said wryly. "Why?"

"I just..." He faltered again, tapping the spoon against his palm. "I don't think you should give up. I mean, on hoping for justice."

"What, you think justice is always served? You've been reading too many comics."

"No such thing as too many," he said firmly. "And how's that coming, anyway? Have you looked at any of those ones I sent home with Brian?"

"Yeah, they're...well, I don't really know what you want me to do with them," I admitted. "I can bring them back, if you need them, or send them with Brian..."

"No, you can keep them, if you want," he said, his eyes wide with the fervent enthusiasm he got only when talking about his beloved comics. And maybe Ben. "I just thought you might want to look them over, you know...just in case."

"In case...?"

He shrugged. "You know...you ever wanted to do something like that. No, I'm serious," he said when I laughed. "You're good, Justin. Really good. I mean, I've seen your work, and you've seen those comics...you could do something like that, easy. It'd be a great way to make some money, advance your career as an _artiste..."_

"Whatever you're smoking, Brian's going to be pissed if you don't share it," I said. "And anyway, I don't know anything about comics, or...any of it. I just know drawing."

"What the fuck do you think comics are?" he asked pointedly. "And if you wouldn't want to do the writing part...well, I _do _know comics." He shrugged. "And you've got something really special."

"What's that?"

"Talent," he said matter-of-factly. "And a story to tell."

I'd just opened my mouth to reply when something hot and tall and headed my way caught my eye, on his way back from the bathroom. He leaned over the table to kiss me before sliding in the booth, and I smiled in contentment— a comfort-kiss. Somewhere in the distance, I could distinctly hear Michael making a noise of mock-disgust.

"Don't you two get enough at home?"

Brian finally tore his lips from mine, his arm once again taking its place over my shoulder. "Don't you have an eerily zen college professor to go fuck?"

Michael grinned. "Thanks for reminding me." He stood up, throwing some money on the table to cover his meal. "See you two later."

We said our good-byes, and he left me squirming a bit under the meaning-laden look he shot in my direction as he left.

"You okay?" Brian asked, effectively drawing my attention away from Michael.

I nodded. "Yeah. I can't eat anymore, though...I think I'm ready to go, too." Debbie had declared both out meals on the house today, but I waited while Brian pulled out a few bills for a tip, then followed him out of the booth.

"You two better get your asses back here soon!" Debbie called after us as we made our way through the diner.

"Will do, Deb," I promised, just as Brian threw a humbly sarcastic "yes, mother" over his shoulder.

I let out a deep breath as we pushed back through the door into the parking lot, uncontainable pride welling up inside me, so that I nearly bounced all the way to the jeep.

**~. Brian .~**

He practically bounded all the way to the jeep. The second we were inside, he was kissing me, taking the lead, shoving his tongue in my mouth, his hand around the back of my neck.

"We did it," he smiled against my lips. "Fuck, we did it."

I bit back the correction on the tip of my tongue— that I hadn't done anything, that he'd done it all. After all, I wasn't the one who found walking into a crowded diner to be a potentially traumatic experience.

But I didn't say anything, just grinned to myself as he finally pulled away to buckle himself in the passenger seat. I turned the key in the ignition, bringing the jeep to life.

"So...the verdict, Mr. Taylor?" I asked, glancing over at him. "All in all, how was it?"

He bit his lip thoughtfully. "All in all...I want to do it again," he said decisively. "Maybe we just need more practice. I mean, it isn't so bad being out of the loft, it's just..."

"Being around so many people."

He nodded, folding his arms over his chest and frowning. "It's really fucking stupid, isn't it? Thinking everyone in the world is out to get me or something? It's like, the more people that are around, the less chance I have of getting away if I need to. It's completely paranoid."

"Not paranoid," I said quietly. He raised a skeptical eyebrow; I rolled my eyes. "Fuck...fine. So it's a little paranoid— but no one could blame you."

"I can." They were two words, two barely audible little words spoken to the passenger side window. But they said so much about Justin, about who he was, that he pushed himself harder than anyone else ever could. He expected himself to be a certain person, to be a certain way, and anything less than that just wasn't good enough.

"Well, it's bullshit," I said sharply. "Anyone would be freaked out after everything you've been through. It's not exactly unwarranted, Justin."

"But it's not like everyone in the fucking universe wants to hurt me," he said, his tone argumentative, as if my assurance that his reaction was understandable was somehow conflicting with the way he was determined to see things. Right then, I think everything he knew and everything he felt were two different, completely contradictory matters.

"No, but after what you went through—"

"You're supposed to say it, Brian," he interrupted me, biting frustration lacing his voice, and I wondered what happened to the lighthearted, bounding-across-the-pavement Justin from a few minutes ago. Shit, this stuff could still fuck with his moods like nothing else. And knowing that they had that emotional power over him, it only ever upset him more, so that he became crushed and aggravated and a whole host of things all at once, kind of like he was starting to do now. "That's what you and Kathy are always telling me, isn't it?"

I clenched my jaw, aggravation of my own settling in, frustration that he just couldn't fucking see what I saw. "Say what? That anyone would be scared shitless of people after being bashed in the head and raped within less than a year? That you have every right to be fucking terrified? That you've already proven that you've got balls by even walking out the fucking door? That what you want to hear?" I regretted my outburst as soon as the words had left my mouth, even if I heartily believed in the truth of them. However, the look on his face and the way he completely shut up at my sudden surge of emotion left me feeling hollow.

We drove in silence most of the way home, him lost in his thoughts, me stewing in my guilt at having snapped at him over this. It wasn't like his attitude was anything new; he was Justin, after all, and Justin didn't take well to having things he wanted out of his reach. He was the kind of person who knew what he wanted and went after it, no matter what it took. Only in this case, it was his own psychological issues holding him back. So much more difficult to fight than, for example, a twenty-nine-year-old one-night-stand-turned-boyfriend who'd tried so futilely to resist him. I'd say he fucking won that one by a landslide.

I turned to look at him as we pulled into a parking space outside the loft, putting the jeep in park.

"Hey," I said, laying a hand on his knee. He blinked up at me, and though his eyes were dry, there was a hurt there that I feared I'd helped to inflict this time. Fuck.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "It's not you. I just don't want it to be like this...like it was after the bashing...for the rest of my life. I don't want to be afraid that someone's gonna hurt me every time I walk out the door."

"Well...I'm sure it'll get easier." I tried to sound sincere, tried to make myself believe it so that I could make _him _believe it. And it probably_ would _get better, just like everything else in our lives had. But it seemed like he'd just gotten over his fear of crowds after the bashing, and then all of this had happened and then he was terrified of people all over again. Maybe it would always be like this, to some degree. Maybe he'd never be completely comfortable, or fully trust anyone again. I hated to even think it, but maybe...maybe that part was a good thing, him being more careful. Of course I wanted him to be able to go out again, to be around people and not be afraid. But if being more aware of things kept him safer, then maybe that part wasn't so bad. "It _has _gotten easier, compared to the first time."

In fact, whenever he started going out alone again, I planned to have a talk with him. For one thing, I wanted him to take a self-defense class. Of course, _that _night, all the self-defense in the world likely wouldn't have helped him, but still, it wouldn't hurt for him to know how to take care of himself. Another thing I wanted was for him to start carrying some fucking mace. I was pretty sure he'd object to these ideas at first, at least to the self-defense idea, but I was intent on ensuring that we were never, ever fucking thrust back into that dark world we'd left behind so recently. I never wanted to see him hurt again, and I was willing to do anything and everything in my power to make sure he was safe. Hell, I'd hire a fucking bodyguard if I thought for a second that he'd let me.

"Yeah, I know. It just seems really fucking stupid that every time we go somewhere, I'm expecting Gary Sapperstein to just be strolling down the street or something," he mumbled. And honestly, wasn't that a reasonable thing to want? The ability to walk down the street with his head held high, and not constantly feel the need to check over his shoulder and wonder if someone_ else _might join the ranks of people who tried to break him inside?

"Well, unless the fucker's got a death wish, he won't be showing his face anywhere I am...not to mention Debbie."

At last, he looked up to offer me an extremely-feeble-but-still-there smile, leaning across the space separating us to kiss me. I kissed back without hesitation, without any doubts of my own. Justin hadn't lost control during kissing for months now. We were safe in this, safe together.

"At least I know I've always got you to protect me."

I felt the words whispered across my lips, as if they were nothing more than air, as if what I'd heard was secondary to the emotions they stirred inside me.

"Don't," I protested, my eyes still closed, lips hovering over his, as if we'd frozen mid-kiss. Maybe, if I didn't move, didn't break this, then what he'd just said wouldn't be real. Maybe I could erase the words along with his expectations of me. Maybe I could save us both from the pain of me letting him down. "Don't fucking say that."

But then he broke it anyway, pulled away and opened his eyes and the moment was ruined. The words were out there, incontrovertible. "Why not?"

I swallowed around my own emotions, forcing them down, the open trust in his eyes almost too much to bear. "Because...I've never protected you." There it was. The horrible, undeniable truth. I'd done the unthinkable and dared to care about him, dared to give a shit about what happened to him. And despite the endless days and hellish nights where I knew that I'd give anything to go back and change things, make things different for him and keep him safe from the world, it wasn't enough. I'd never done one fucking thing to protect him; he'd gotten hurt, every time.

"_That's_ bullshit. You protect me all the time."

I snorted. "Right."

"You do," he said quietly, his gaze dropping, lips pressed together, as if he had something more to say, but didn't know if he should. "You protect me from me. Believe me...I need it sometimes."

I closed my eyes again briefly, let out a deep, low breath. I pressed my forehead to his, letting myself drown a bit in the trust and love and whatever the fuck else in his eyes. "I think I can handle that much."

He smiled and kissed me again, slowly and soundly. He grabbed for the lever of the passenger seat again, giving me the room I needed to entwine our bodies together.

We didn't make it back to the loft for a while yet.

~.~

I hadn't woken to the sound of broken, jumbled whimpers and a thrashing bed mate in a long, long time. But there was no mistaking the quiet cries into the darkness, or the desperate flailing as he tried to free himself from some invisible assailant.

Finally, I came to enough to realize what the fuck was going on, and reached over to shake him out of it. "Justin!"

Immediately, the whimpering grew louder, the thrashing more violent.

"Justin, wake up," I implored him, sitting up now, the better to shake him awake. "Wake the fuck up, Justin, it's a dream."

Finally, with a start and a small cry, his eyes flew open, darting around the room, unable to focus, until finally they fell on me. He let out what I took to be a breath of relief, eyes fluttering closed.

"You okay?" I asked him after a moment during which I let him catch his bearings and regulate his breathing. He nodded, swallowing hard, his eyes still closed. Fuck. _Fuck, _what the hell was this?

After the bashing, I'd sort of become an expert on comforting Justin post-nightmare. After the party, I'd gotten even more experience. However, after he'd started taking those pills at night, our four-AM consolation sessions had severely decreased. These days, he slept peacefully throughout the night, and therefore, so did I.

Tentatively, I lay down next to him, resting a hand on his arm. He took a final deep breath, in and out, and opened his eyes. They still had a rather dazed, fearful look about them, but at least they were dry for now.

"Thanks." He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, kicking at the blankets so that his feet poked out from beneath them.

"Don't mention it." He opened his mouth again; I rolled my eyes. "And don't you fucking dare say you're sorry."

He promptly shut his mouth, huffing in amusement. I felt my entire body relax with the relief I felt; if he could find it in himself to be amused about anything right now, the nightmare hadn't likely been one of epic proportions. Or maybe he was simply better at handling them at this point.

"So..."

"Don't ask what it was about."

I pressed my lips together, but couldn't help being somewhat amused, myself. It really wasn't funny— there was, after all, a _reason _we'd been through this routine so many times that we had every line memorized. But something about knowing the exact words the other was thinking seemed to strike us both as funny, anyway. Or maybe that was just because it was nearly four AM and we were still a little drunk with sleep.

"So how about I ask why the fuck you're having these again?" I asked instead. He turned to look at me, feigning innocence with a look, even while his eyes betrayed him. "Maybe we should talk to Kathy, get the dosage fixed if these aren't working..."

"It's not the dosage," he muttered, rolling back over to look up at the ceiling. He sighed. "I take the ones in the morning. I just...don't always take the sleeping pills."

"Why the fuck not?" Really, there was nothing I could think of that would explain him purposefully _not _taking the medicine prescribed to help him. Maybe I could understand it if he'd stopped wanting the antidepressants, but the sleeping pills had always been his favorite, an ally of sorts to us both these last few months.

He shrugged. "I just don't."

"Right, I can see how you'd miss the nightly occurrences of waking up screaming," I said sarcastically, then regretted it when I saw him wince slightly at my harshness. But Christ...weren't we fucking _done _with this part of our lives? It was one thing to forget to take the pill, but deliberately not doing it— and it certainly sounded as if that was the case— I didn't get it. I'd seen on too many occasions what his nightmares did to him, and I hated that part of his mind with a passion for torturing him that way. Why the fuck he'd ever willingly put himself through that was beyond me. However, I forced myself to swallow any remaining comments I might have had; they weren't helping in this case.

"Why aren't you taking your pills, Justin?" I asked again, a bit more calmly this time, pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers. Fuck, it was too late for this. Or early. Either way, it was fucking four AM and no time to be dealing with nightmares that he shouldn't even be having.

"I _am _taking them," he said firmly. "I'm taking the ones in the morning, and I sometimes take the sleeping pills, too."

"Sometimes," I repeated.

"Yeah...like, four or five times a week, Brian," he said, in an exasperated tone that suggested I needed to get off his back about it. "It depends. And I haven't had any nightmares any other time when I skipped them. Tonight's the first one."

"You know, Kathy prescribes them for a reason," I pointed out. "And I thought you liked them?"

He blew out a frustrated breath. "I do. But...sometimes I just like knowing that _I _can handle things...just me. I don't want to depend on them forever, Brian."

I sighed. As much as I would have liked to say that fuck no, I didn't understand where he was coming from...well, this _was _Justin. Justin, who liked to stand on his own two feet as much as possible, and apparently saw his own medication as a crutch. I'd never really thought that the pills would be forever, but I couldn't honestly say that I'd considered him giving them up, either.

"You know, I'm disappointed in you," I said, leaning back against my pillows. "Here you have professionally prescribed drugs— that our insurance is helping to pay for, no less— and you want to stop taking them? Do you know how much I pay for good shit at Babylon?"

He snorted, scooting closer to lay his head in the crook of my outstretched arm. "Nice to know you've got your priorities straight."

"Damn right."

We lay like that in silence for a while, just listening to each other breathe. "If this keeps happening," I said after a few minutes, "if you keep having nightmares..."

"I'll start taking them again, all the time," he promised.

I nodded, closing my eyes. "And if it doesn't happen...if you think you can handle it without them...maybe we can talk to Kathy. See about getting rid of them completely."

He gave my chest a gentle pat. "Really?"

"Mhm," I murmured in affirmation. "And...what about the antidepressants? You said you're still taking those?"

"I am. But actually, I wanted to talk to you about those too..." he began.

"You don't want them, either." It wasn't a question.

"I'm not depressed," he said, his tone argumentative, as if I'd suggested the opposite. "Looking back, I guess I really was..."

I waited for a moment for him to elaborate. I mean, this had always been clear to me. Recognizing Justin's depression back then had been as simple as recognizing that snow was fucking cold. It had never been a question in my mind: Justin had suffered from severe depression, and was digging himself out of that black hole every day.

"I guess...I knew I _was,_ in a way. I just— didn't really _know, _you know what I mean?" he asked. Once glance at me answered his question, and he sighed. "I knew that I hated everything about my life, that I was miserable all the time...but I think now, looking back, I realize just how bad it was."

"And now?" He was certainly nothing like the way he'd been for those first few months. Hell, it had taken a suicide attempt to turn things around, and wasn't that a fucking terrifying thought? That things had been so horrible that it had taken something like that to mark a turning point in our lives? To get him to seek the help he'd so desperately needed?

That wasn't to say, however, that Justin didn't still have his bad days. Like the bashing, this was something that neither of us could ever quite manage to completely shake, and I doubted we ever would. It was just that these days, there were far more good days and great days and even okay days than truly bad ones. When things went wrong, he bounced back quicker and more easily than he had in the past. He actually enjoyed things, now, and was at the point where he was actively searching out parts of his past to bring back to life. Take last week at the diner, for instance. The Justin of six months ago never would have done that. The Justin of six months ago had all but given up expecting to ever have things like that again.

He seemed to mull over his response for a moment. "No," he said finally, shaking his head. "No, not depressed. Definitely not depressed. I think I'm just...different."

"Different," I repeated.

He frowned. "Yeah. The way I am...the way I see things...it's all changed."

"Good change, or bad change?"

"Both. Some good, some bad, some just...different," he said simply. "I don't know if it'll ever be the way it was...if any part of my life can really go back to how it was before."

"That's not true," I said, almost defensively, as if I just had to protect that idea of our lives being everything we'd once had, even if I knew myself that there were parts of it that were permanently altered. "Things have been better lately. A lot better."

"Yeah, but...they're different, too. I mean, this whole time, I've been thinking in terms of getting things back to the way they were. And sometimes, I even think that they are. There are things like...I don't know, being with you, or going out, that are still hard sometimes. It's still a lot for me to deal with. And then there are things like staying home alone, or drawing, or just...waking up in the morning and not feeling like I want to die. I had all that before, but now it's all just— different. Even if it's just because I appreciate it more now. The bashing changed things a lot...and this changed them even more. It's just how it is."

And hell, that was life, wasn't it? It was what life did to us all: changed us, molded us into the people we were. If it was true that we were all just the sum of our pasts, then how could anything ever be the same, day after day? After all, I was a different person than I'd been before I met Justin. And Justin was a different person, too, than he'd been back then. Prom had changed us both. So had the party. So had his attempted suicide, and his countless hours of therapy, and his new sexual experiences with me. He was different, evolving, every day, just as I was. So of course he wasn't the same. How could he be? How could anyone?

"Change can be good," I said quietly.

He tilted his head to smile softly up at me. "Yeah."

He didn't have to say anymore. Didn't have to spell out all the things that were different now, in me, in him, with us. He was right; everything _had _changed. Some things for the best, some not so much. But we were here, and we were happy, weren't we? More or less, anyway? He _seemed _happy...happier, at least. And as long as he was happy— and preferably right where he was now, wrapped around me— then I was happy, too. Fuck, that was pathetic, but fuck it. We'd gone through enough shit in the last year alone to resist any scrap of happiness or contentment we could get.

"Hey," I said, hoping to dispel some of the lesbianic tension that had seeped between us. "As much as I love a good conversation at four in the morning— you think we might be going back to sleep any time soon?"

He stretched a little in my arms, yawning. "Probably should. Unless you had something more interesting in mind than sleep."

We turned to look at each other at the exact same moment, something stirring between us, that passion that was always there. That desire to devour each other."You sure you should, after...?"

He was already shaking his head, dismissing my concerns. "It was just a nightmare. I'm fine. Besides...I'd rather feel you than them."

I stared at him, reading his expression, taking in the sincere confidence, the warmth in his eyes. No false bravado, no empty reassurances as far as I could see. Satisfied, I leaned in to kiss him.

**~. Justin .~**

His hands were wandering, sliding up my chest and sifting through my hair, rubbing my arms and back. He tugged at my hair gently, rolling us over to lie on our sides, facing each other.

We'd been having sex sporadically for over a month now. I had to admit, it was getting easier and easier to be with him, even if the odds were still against us. There were a few little tricks we'd picked up, as well as therapeutic advice from Kathy, and though they didn't always work, those simple little steps often helped me keep calm and firmly in reality.

"You sure you're— "

"Don't you fucking dare ask if I'm okay again," I warned, shutting him up with a kiss. And then speech was a thing of the past, and we were kissing and I was just melting into him, lost in the intoxicating sensations. Sometimes, I honestly believed that being with him was the remedy to everything wrong in my life. He took away everything, all the bad parts, until there was nothing else left but the perfect parts, the amazing parts, and that was something I couldn't even do for myself.

Despite our promises to each other that we would, one of these times, actually try to have real sex, we never did make it that far. He didn't try to initiate anything more than a hand job, and truth be told, I was far too nervous to try for more. Sometimes, I wondered what would happen if I came right out and asked for it, if he'd actually fuck me. Most likely, he'd ask me about a dozen times if I was sure, hesitating because I looked fucking terrified, and then I'd prove him right and freak out on him. And I enjoyed sex with him far too much to risk that. Of course, there was always a risk when it came to this, even just jerking each other off, but to actually have him inside me...I wanted it more than anything, true, but it also had the potential to cause me more devastation than anything else. If I lost it and forgot where I was with him inside me? Yeah, that would probably be enough for him to rule out sex completely for at least another couple of months. Not to mention what it would do to me. Better just to take things slow.

Of course, that didn't stop me from wanting it, from craving it, craving _him _with everything I had. His lips were at my ear, my hands running over the smooth, taut muscles of his chest. As if ignited by an invisible match, I could feel the flurry of nerves and excitement roaring to life inside me. All the usual questions, the usual hopes, the usual uncertainties made their way to the surface. Could I? Would we? Would it happen again, here, right now?

He let me rock and grind myself against him, his hands at my hips, both our cocks growing harder between us. I tangled my fingers in his hair, loving the way the short tufts of auburn felt to clench, to tug on gently. Letting go at last, I reached down between us and took him in my hand, something thrilling jolting through me as he moaned his appreciation. He looked like he wanted to close his eyes, but he forced them open instead, keeping them locked on mine, in honor of our unspoken agreement to try and keep eye contact whenever possible. It helped me, I think...helped me feel connected to him and to the moment, something I struggled with.

It wasn't long before his fingers were wrapping around my own dick, his free hand roaming my body, setting my skin ablaze wherever he touched, everything feeling so good and so right and so perfect with him. Slowly, I was shifting, moving from my place next to him and settling myself on his lap, holding his face in my hands and kissing him with all I had, keeping him occupied, as if hoping he wouldn't notice what I was doing.

I quickly found myself losing any conscious train of thought as I kissed him everywhere, my head spinning with the taste of him. He tilted his head to allow me to nuzzle his neck, and arched into the brush of my lips against his chest. I kissed right along the little trail of hairs leading to his cock, hesitating, my lips hovering right above it. Maybe...maybe real sex was still too much, but that didn't mean we couldn't make a tiny leap like this. I'd been fantasizing about it for weeks, hadn't I? I could handle this, right?

He didn't move a muscle, but I could feel his eyes on me...watching, waiting to see what I was going to do...determined to keep quiet and let me decide this on my own.

Fuck, I _wished _he'd give me some sign, some hint of confidence in me, in my ability to do this. Instead, he just lay there with his legs open for me, waiting to see if my own desires overcame the memories inside my head of the last time I'd done anything like this. Giving me the choice to make on my own.

But fuck, it was just Brian, wasn't it? I'd blown him hundreds of times before. And I'd always loved it, right? I loved having his dick in my mouth, loved knowing all the pleasurable sensations I was giving him, loved reducing him to a moaning mass of unbridled bliss. I loved sucking him off almost as much as he loved _being _sucked off. So...what the hell was my problem?

Well, fuck, of course I knew the answer to that. My problem was that the last time I'd had a dick down my throat, it hadn't been his. It hadn't even been by my choice. I remembered everything about it, all those scary men, choking me with their cocks and their cum and telling me to swallow like a good boy. I remembered being told I'd have my teeth knocked down my throat if I bit them. I remembered not being able to breathe because I'd had them down my throat, and then I'd been crying too hard to breathe out of my nose. I remembered being sure that they would suffocate me before the night was over, or at the very least bruise my jaw. I remembered not knowing which was worse, having them fuck my mouth or having them kiss me. Both had made me want to vomit. Still did, really.

And even now, I was terrified that all of those things, those vivid memories, might make their way to the front of my mind and take over, until I no longer knew what was real and what wasn't, what was the past and what was really happening. I mean, it had happened before, right? I'd had plenty of flashbacks while kissing Brian, or trying to jerk him off.

So, I hesitated, my lips over his dick, a war raging inside my head. I let out a deep breath that made him gasp when the air hit his cock. Fuck, I wanted that, wanted to make him gasp and moan and beg for my mouth. I wanted it all.

Cautiously, I brushed my lips against the head of his dick, making him gasp again. Fuck, okay, I could do this. I could. I just had to open my mouth, take him inside it and suck him off. Ignore that gagging sensation in the back of my throat, and just do this. Open up. Come on. I could do this.

"I can't." I didn't even realize, at first, that I'd whispered the words out loud. His fingers tangled themselves in my hair— not pushing me down toward his cock, but pulling me upwards. I think my eyes were watering a little when he kissed me tenderly, stroking my hair back from my face, so sweetly, so heartbreakingly intimately.

"I want to," I said honestly, but he just kept kissing me, seeming not to care that I'd just tried to offer him that and then taken it away. "I do, Brian...just let me try again..."

He ignored me, however, gently pushing me off him and onto the bed. I tried to sit up, but then he was rolling over me, pinning me to the bed.

"Relax," he said softly, kissing me again. And it was hard to argue when he did that. So instead, I kept quiet and just let him do what he wanted, which pretty much just seemed to consist of kissing me everywhere. My neck, my belly, the insides of my wrists, my thighs. My fingers reached automatically for his hair, my eyes never leaving the top of his head.

Finally, he came to a rest just above my dick. My breath caught in my throat as he raised his eyes to look at me, as I realized just what he was planning to do.

"Okay?" he asked. Fuck, he almost always asked. Always checked with me first, always made sure that I was okay and that he had my permission. Yeah, I missed the days when he could just roll me over and fuck me hard, but for now, unless and until those days returned...I loved him for being so considerate.

I nodded my consent, too breathless to say anything. Oh god...oh fuck...was he really going to...?

His breath ghosted over my cock, much the same way as mine had done to his. He hesitated for just a moment more, and then his mouth was on my dick, his lips around the head. I cried out, my grip on his hair tightening. Oh god...oh my god, he was sucking me off. For the first time in seven and a half months, he was sucking me off.

I was moaning, struggling to keep my eyes open and on him, getting lost in the pleasure his wet, warm mouth was giving me, his pace slow and leisurely. And fuck...he knew I couldn't reciprocate, at least not this way, but here he was, once again, giving me everything he could, everything he thought I could handle.

His hands were rubbing up and down my thighs, soothing me, and he didn't try to restrain me when my hips arched off the bed. He used to, sometimes, when he blew me. He'd hold my hips down, make me wait, draw it out so that he was the one in control of every sensation. But in the last month since we'd started having sex again, he hadn't once tried to pin me down or restrain me in any way, by my hips or my wrists or anything the way he used to. It was another of our unspoken rules.

I cried out his name, and I think I let slip and 'I love you,' too, as I was sometimes known to do. Sometimes, this was just too much, being with him like this, and the feeling overwhelmed me until it came spilling out of my mouth. I knew it still made him somewhat uncomfortable, so I tried not to let it happen too often, but sometimes he would say it back, which made it all the better when I did.

His hand had slid from my thigh up to my chest, right over my heart, where I grasped it and held it to me, clenching his fingers tightly. Oh god, he was even holding my hand. And this...it wasn't too much. I wasn't losing it, wasn't freaking out. It was different, somehow, than anything else we'd done, or anything else we'd been hoping for. It was different from jerking him off, different from being jerked off. It was different than blowing him, and it was different than letting him fuck me. It wasn't just the act itself that was different, but somehow, the feelings it invoked in me were different, too. It wasn't as scary as trying to suck him off, or thinking about letting him fuck me. And somehow, it felt more intimate than the hand jobs we'd been exchanging up until now.

My groans were getting louder, my pleads more insistent as I watched his head bob up and down between my legs. I grasped his hair a little tighter to warn him, and then I was spilling into his mouth.

He greedily lapped up every drop I had to offer, licking me clean while I lay there panting, trying to catch my breath. I'd gotten better lately about keeping it together post-orgasm, but right then I could feel the tenuous threads of my composure nearing their snapping point.

Just when I thought I might lose it and dissolve into pathetic tears or something, he was there, kissing me, his arms tight around me. I pushed him back slightly, just enough to create a little space in between us for me to reach down and take his cock into my hand. His breathing immediately accelerated, and I leaned in to swallow his grunts with kisses. It didn't take long before he was coming all over us both, and we were kissing and holding each other and just coming down from our high. He buried his face in my neck, and I stroked his hair, combing out the tangles I'd inadvertently caused when I'd gripped the strands in my fingers.

"Brian," I said in a hushed tone, as if speaking too loud would shatter the moment completely."Brian, that was amazing. That was so fucking...just, thank you."

He found my hand, gave it a squeeze. I held onto it, unwilling to let any part of him go. Finally lifting his head from my neck, he gave me a small smile, one that spoke of quiet pride and love and all the things he hated to say, but couldn't quite help showing.

"Justin..." He paused, his eyes full of a million things I couldn't even begin to identify. Instead of attempting to put it into words, however, he just leaned down to kiss me gently instead.

And somehow, that fucking said it all.


	34. Limitless

**A/N: **Dear Anyone Who Is Still Reading:

So, okay...yes, I changed the name of the last chapter. Yes, I'd intended for it to be the penultimate one. Yes, I really should try to plan better, because obviously I have no idea how to do that. This was supposed to be the last chapter, and next was supposed to be the epilogue, but um...that's not working out too well. I'm making no promises, because I can't seem to keep them, but I will say that the next chapter will _probably _be the last one. I intend for it to be. But, clearly, my plans don't always work out.

I will say this chapter got away from me, but I'm okay with that because I think it works better this way. I figured I might as well do it right and make it the best I can, even if that means changing the name of a chapter and having one more than I thought I would.

So, I apologize, but hopefully it turns out better this way for me as the writer, you as the readers, and Brian and Justin as the characters, and everyone is happier with the finished product, even if the ending is just a little bit further off than it was originally supposed to be.

-Me

And now, the chapter:

**~. Brian .~**

My arm was throbbing, but I pressed my lips tightly together, refusing to allow even a single sound to escape. It was the least I could do; I'd promised him every comfort, and that included permitting him to grasp my arm so tightly that the circulation of blood in the limb became questionable.

He still hated the crowds; the additional pain in my arm every time they passed by and he tightened his grip on me attested to that. But he didn't usually have to stop and huddle against me anymore when people got too close, and that was a considerable step forward in itself.

"You feel like lunch yet?" I asked as we reached the end of the block. We'd been practicing all morning, walking the streets of Liberty Avenue together. At first, I'd started off by leaving him at the top of a street and having him walk down to where I was waiting with open arms. After about an hour of this, however, he'd had enough, and was now clinging to me tightly as we explored various shops.

He nodded. "Want to go to the diner? We can walk back to the car and drive."

I agreed, and we slowly made our way back to the jeep. It was a quicker walk to where we'd parked than it was to the diner, and it was starting to get a little too warm out. He walked, not hunched into me, adhered to my side, but with his head held high, standing tall next to me...still holding tight to my arm, but not relying solely on me to make it through the crowds. It was amazing, really, how far he'd come in just a few weeks. Ever since our initial lunch at the diner over three weeks ago, we'd spent more time in public, on the streets, than we had in pretty much the last seven or so months before that.

There had really only been once incident that could truly be considered a serious setback. A couple of weeks ago, during our third or fourth walk, he'd had a panic attack in the middle of the street. It didn't help that when it became obvious what was going on, even more people had flocked to him, trying to assist him in any way they could, unaware that their presence was only causing him more distress. Finally, I'd had to pull him down an empty side street until he'd gotten through it. After that, I'd assumed it would be at least another few weeks until he felt up to going out again. Instead, to my surprise, he'd insisted we go out that very next weekend.

We'd developed a sort of routine during these outings. To start with, I would leave him at a corner where there wasn't too many people around and let him make his way toward me. These exercises were almost as difficult for me as they were for him; I hated watching his internal battles playing out, his instinct to run away warring with his determination to reach me. If I really thought he couldn't make it, I'd go and retrieve him, pulling him into the nearest deserted space to loosen up and ease some of the tension in his body. Sometimes this involved holding him until his nerves dissipated; most times, though, I simply pulled him close and kissed him until he forgot to be afraid.

When he did make it to me, our version of celebration wasn't really all that different than the consolation. I'd find the nearest deserted wall, push him against it, and kiss him senseless. Basically, we usually ended up making out no matter what.

After he'd had enough of walking alone through the crowds, we'd walk together for a while, usually with him clutching my arm or my waist tightly. Sometimes, if there weren't too many people out, he'd settle for just holding my hand instead.

Often, we'd visit some of the shops lining the streets. He'd found a little bookstore that he favored that carried an impressive selection of art books, and he let me linger at the clothing stores. We'd frequently come away from these shops with a book on impressionism or something with the Armani label.

Today, I was sporting one of my latest purchases— a stylish pair of Gucci shoes. My feet were starting to ache from all our walking, but I knew better than to mention this to him; I was almost guaranteed some snarky response about how I'd paid a fortune for a hundredth pair of shoes that I couldn't even walk in. And I was far too proud to admit that he was right.

He didn't even seem to mind the crowd when we pulled up at the front of the diner, but simply took my hand and weathered through it. We automatically headed for our favorite table and took a seat. Less than a minute later, Debbie was upon us.

"Hey, Deb," said Justin with barely subdued brightness. They took a toll on him, these public treks, but he was faring better and better after every one. "How's it going?"

"Just fine, hon. What've you boys been up to?"

"Brian's been shopping for clothes." There was a hint of exasperation in his voice.

I scoffed. "The Armani spring collection, or any garment thereof, is above the mere classification of _clothes."_

"Millionth pair of shoes, or billionth black shirt he doesn't need?" Debbie asked, turning to him.

"Shirt," answered Justin promptly. "And a tie."

Deb nodded, as if she'd expected as much, and flipped open her order pad. "So, what can I get you boys to eat? Got to keep up your strength, especially if you're going to be wandering the streets clothes shopping."

"Not clothes," I gritted out. Was nothing sacred? "Armani."

Predictably, they both ignored me.

Debbie had finally stopped squealing to everyone in the diner whenever we showed up, and had limited herself to only bringing one or two plates of extra food over per meal. Justin munched on his free lemon bars while I attempted to explain to him the merits of Armani and Prada over clothes one could buy at any common mall. Not that I expected it to have any effect whatsoever, and honestly, that was fine with me. Justin could wear whatever the fuck he wanted— hell, he could wear a potato sack for all I cared— and I'd still find him just as fuckable. I had to admit, though, there were certain things Justin wore— suits, for instance, or particular shades of blue— that got me hard just looking at him.

Justin frowned halfway through my detailed explanation of the value of Prada shoes. "Between you and Emmett, I'm going to end up dressed like a Prada rainbow. He keeps trying to talk me into wearing pink leather pants."

Okay, I drew the line at that one. "We're just trying to educate you. As fellow gay men, it's our duty," I explained. "But don't listen to him. He knows nothing."

Suddenly, a voice cut clearly through the usual diner chatter. "Except how to dress, how to dance, and how to give a spectacular blow job."

Justin laughed as Emmett slid into the booth beside him, planting a kiss on his cheek. Seconds later, Ted slid in next to me, accompanied by Michael and Ben.

"Well, Brian definitely doesn't need any help in the blow job department. And I doubt you'll ever be able to tear him from his precious Prada," said Justin, grinning at me. "Though a few dancing tips wouldn't be the worst thing in the world."

I flicked a fry at him as Emmett took his hand, leaning in conspiratorially. "I'll give it my best shot, but I promise nothing," he said in a stage whisper. I sneered at him.

"We didn't know you guys were going to be out today," said Michael after the laughter at my expense had died down somewhat. "We were just at the gym. You guys should have come."

"We would have, but Brian was busy trying to find his fiftieth black Armani shirt that looks almost exactly the same as every other black Armani shirt he owns," Justin supplied. I flicked another fry at him, insulted by everyone's apparent lack of respect for Armani today. He laughed and threw the fry back at me. I had to admit— despite the fact that I was the subject of everyone's amusement at the moment— I remembered a time when these pockets of lighthearted laughter were nothing more than breath of relief, and it made me all the more thankful that they had become the norm.

"Did you hear about those guys getting caught?" Michael asked a few minutes later, when the subject turned to the GLC 'End the Violence' meetings he and Ben had been attending, along with the Munchers. "The ones who bashed those two kids a few weeks ago?"

"They caught them?" Justin sat up a little straighter in his seat. "Are they pressing charges?"

"One of them is," answered Ben. "He's thirsty for their blood."

"Can't blame him," said Justin quietly. No one answered. We'd all been there, in our own ways; we all agreed.

"Told you there was such a thing as justice," said Michael. He was addressing Justin, but was seemingly unable to help not-so-subtly glancing at me. "It's like I said— you just have to hold on and hope it works out...people pay for the pain they cause in the end. It's karma."

There was a brief moment where his words weighed on us all, but then Debbie brought over our friends' meals and the topic was dropped. Mindless chatter filled the void, everything from Emmett's newest favorite trashy soap opera to Michael's disgust at finding out in a recent issue that a comic character he'd sworn was gay had actually been chasing pussy all along.

"It's obvious he's in love with his sidekick," he groused. "All those comments about only having each other? How they'd even put each other before saving the world? It was a fucking cop out. People started reacting, and they just couldn't draw him a girlfriend fast enough."

I rolled my eyes. "If you ask me, all superheros are a bunch of closet cases."

"Then how do you explain Louis Lane?" challenged Ted. "And Mary-Jane, from Spider-Man?"

I shrugged. "Dykes. It's your old fashioned, traditional love story. Fag is a superhero. Super-Fag meets Dyke. Super-Fag and Dyke pretend to hook up for appearance's sake, while Super-Fag is really banging his hot young sidekick. Bam— epic love story for the ages."

"I have to hand it to you, no one does romance like you, Bri," said Ted, while Emmett cackled and Michael continued to look glum.

"Hey, Brian knows how to be romantic," said Justin defensively, pointing a fry at Ted. "Whenever he dragged me into grimy public bathrooms to fuck, and he would always hold the door open for me like a real gentleman."

"Well, let it never be said that you aren't chivalrous, Brian," snorted Ted.

The rest of the meal continued in a similar fashion, with all of us joking and exchanging playful banter. I did notice, though, that Justin had fallen unusually quiet by the end of the meal, and tentatively broached the topic once we were once again alone in the jeep.

"Are we going back home, or are we walking some more?" he asked as I pulled out of the parking lot.

"It's up to you. Have you had enough for one day? You're quiet." I hated that, the way he would so often withdraw inside himself when things got to be too much. I wanted his problems out in the open, where I could see them and do something about them, not hidden inside his mind where I was helpless against them.

He shrugged. "Just thinking, I guess."

"About what?"

"Well...it's good, isn't it? That they're doing all this at the GLC? I can't believe they even caught the assholes who bashed those guys. How often does that happen? And how often do they actually do something about it?"

"Not often enough," I conceded. Maybe for once, there might actually be a chance of justice imposed by the legal system. Maybe for once, we wouldn't see it fail, the way it had failed Justin.

He nodded absently. "Right."

He was silent for most the ride home, but a few minutes before we turned on our street— I'd made the decision to just take him back to the loft, rather than try and navigate the streets any more today— he spoke up.

"Do you think...I don't know, if maybe I'd been...stronger, or braver...if I'd done something, maybe things would have turned out different? Maybe Chris Hobbes...Gary Sapperstein...maybe they would have paid, too?"

I felt my breath catch in my throat, my mind immediately filled with panic over this question, with fear that he somehow knew what I was up to...a guilty man's conscience.

And fuck, how was I supposed to answer that? The answer— my honest fucking answer— was that it _could _have made a very big difference. Maybe nothing would have happened in the end, maybe the case would have fallen apart...or maybe not. Maybe Sapperstein would have been locked up, if Justin had done things differently. Not that I blamed him. Fuck, he'd been traumatized for the second time in less than a year. He'd just been starting to put his life back together after the bashing, and then the rape had happened and he'd broken down all over again.

My other honest fucking answer was that it didn't really matter anyway. It really didn't, because Sapperstein was going to fucking pay one way or another. And if Justin wasn't going to put him away, then I was.

But fuck, he was waiting for an answer, waiting for me to say something, so I decided to answer his question with one of my own. "You wish you'd pressed charges?"

He shrugged again. "I don't know. On one hand, I don't know if I could have done it. If— if I could have gone to court and went through all of that. On the other hand— I hate knowing that he'll never pay for it. He'll never be locked up, where he should be. I could've done more...I should have. I should've gone to the police. Now nothing will ever happen to him— he'll never pay for what he did."

"He will."

He looked over at me, his face a mixture of surprise and skepticism. "How do you know?"

"Because." I knew he was hoping for something concrete, something a little more dependable than what I had to offer him right now. But I looked into his eyes, those fucking trusting blue eyes, and could only give him one answer. "Because Mikey's right. Things do work out, if you give them the chance."

**~. Justin .~**

Brian's unspoken words weren't lost on me; they rarely were. I knew what he'd chosen not to say. Knew the answer to my question was _yes. _If I'd done something, stood up for myself, then maybe Sapperstein would have eventually ended up behind bars. It would have been much more likely, at least, than it was right now. Something in Brian's expression had changed when I asked him that, something in his eyes, maybe, a pain that flared up in the depths of hazel that cast a shadow over his beautiful face. He knew it. He knew it was true, too. I should have done something. I should have fought back, should have demanded justice on my own behalf, and I hadn't.

I'd been hesitant about even asking him that, to give voice to what I knew was true. If I'd done things differently...if I'd been smarter about it, been braver...maybe Sapperstein would have been in jail right then. If I hadn't been so fucking broken and scared afterward, maybe I wouldn't have suffered so much later on, always with that knowledge that he was walking free. It had been one blow of many, slowly chipping away at that core part of me that had always believed that things would work out, that rightness would prevail over what was wrong.

That very night, I had a nightmare. In it, I found myself in what I was sure, with that omniscient knowledge that came with dreams, was a twisted version of the diner, though it was almost unrecognizable. Fliers and newspapers bearing the faces of those latest bashing victims adorned the walls, along with baseball bats that hung like trophies. Framed portraits decorated the empty spaces, all featuring faces from my very worst nightmares: Hobbes, Sapperstein, and a number of nameless men who I knew only by their sneering, evil faces.

I struggled, kicking and writhing against whatever was holding me in place. I didn't know why I was stuck, only knew that I couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't get away from the stretch of wall behind me, no matter how hard I fought. It wasn't the first time I'd experienced this inability to move at will, and I remembered all too well what had happened the last time. Then suddenly, a voice was speaking directly to me, cold and familiar, and I felt my blood turn to ice inside my veins.

"You had your chance, Justin."

I whimpered as Gary Sapperstein came into view, struggling more madly than ever to get free from the invisible force holding me there. No, please no, not him...I knew what happened when he was around...the kind of torture that followed... "You had your chance to run, and you had your chance to fight back. Now it's my turn." No, anything, anyone but him, please...

"Please," I gasped, tears streaming down my cheeks now. I knew what was coming, the type of pain he always brought with him, and vowed to resist it with everything I had. I couldn't let it happen. Not again. Not ever.

"_Please," _he mocked me, drawing ever closer. "If you wanted me gone, you would have put me away yourself when you had the chance," he barked. He ran a hand up my chest, and I fought fruitlessly to get away from it, to make it stop touching me.

"_Don't— touch— me!"_ The words were part scream, part sob, part desperate begging.

His face was right next to mine, his breath foul and unpleasant against my cheek. "You know you want it. You always wanted it, or you wouldn't have let me do it."

I cried out again, trying to twist away from him. "I _didn't! _I _never _wanted it!"

His fingers slipped beneath my chin, forcing me to turn and look into cold, steely eyes. His touch on my skin made me sick to my stomach. "Then why didn't you do anything?" His voice was soft, dangerously so. I wanted to recoil from it, to hide from his words and the ugliness they were forcing me to face. "You know you wanted it all along, Justin, that's why you never did anything. You had so many chances, and you never took them...why else would you keep quiet?"

His hand was sliding up my shirt, now, his lips against my skin, and he was telling me there was nothing I would ever be able to do about it, telling me I wanted it, all of it, and I was screaming, and then someone else was screaming, calling my name, and I couldn't breathe and couldn't think beyond getting away, freeing myself from my worst nightmare.

"Justin!" And then there was Brian, and I was throwing myself in his arms, and fuck, it really _was _a nightmare, and I was safe, and Sap wasn't here, and I was okay...oh, thank God...

"Shit." I could hear Brian swearing under his breath, even as he stroked my hair and did his best to calm me down. Fuck. I still wasn't used to this.

We'd talked to Kathy a few weeks ago about me quitting my medication. She'd agreed, thankfully, but I was supposed to slowly wean myself off them rather than quit outright, to help minimize any withdrawal symptoms. So far, I'd only experienced some light nausea, but both she and Brian had told me in no uncertain terms that if I ever felt like I needed the pills again— either the anti-depressants or the sleeping pills— that I was to tell them right away. I'd agreed to these terms happily enough.

Since then, I'd only had a total of two nightmares, including tonight's. And really, the first one shouldn't have even been counted, since it had nothing to do with the bashing or the party, but instead had to do with something as ridiculous as Brian growing breasts. Yeah, I hadn't hesitated about telling him that one. There had been about five seconds when I wasn't sure if he was pissed or not— I don't think he even knew what to feel— and then he was simply indignant, intent on sharing with me all his masculine attributes. And then worshiping mine.

I doubted there'd be anything of the sort tonight, however. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, burying my face in his neck as I'd done so many times before, blocking out the world. Not crying, just...trying to get a hold on things. Get my bearings and sink into something real, something safe.

"I'm okay," I whispered after a few moments. I felt him nodding into my shoulder. "I'm okay." Such a difference from the way things used to be, with him whispering in _my _ear that it was okay, that everything was fine and I was safe. And I _could_ hear him murmuring such things now, doing his best to reassure me, but I felt like I had to reassure him, too, show him that it wasn't like before, that I was stronger, that I could handle it.

After just a few minutes, I pulled away from him, letting him catch a glimpse of my perfectly dry eyes.

"Wanna talk about it?"

I was already shaking my head. "Not really."

He settled himself back down on his pillows, stretching an arm my way in invitation. I happily snuggled in close, letting the sensation of ultimate security erase the spine-chilling fear my dream had left me with. I knew Brian wouldn't go back to sleep until he was sure I had drifted off again, so I closed my eyes, kept still, and forced myself to breathe deeply for a while. Before long, his thumb had slowed its stroking of my hand, then stopped altogether, and I knew he was gone.

Still, it took me a while longer to really quiet my mind. Dream-Gary's words swirled around my brain, hitting all the right buttons inside my head to keep me awake. He'd been right, that figment of my nightmare— maybe I'd really had my chance to fight back, to lock him up, and I'd thrown it away without a second thought. I'd thrown it away that very next morning, with that shower I'd taken— just washed away my evidence, my one chance to incriminate them. The one and only benefit of them not using condoms had been that I'd had them inside of me, their DNA, my proof. Without that, it was just my word against theirs, even with my injuries to prove that I'd obviously been mistreated by someone. Hell, they could have come back with anything to explain those— fuck, they could have said that Brian had done it. Of course, they could have simply said that I'd wanted it, that I'd wanted them and I'd wanted it rough, but without their DNA, I couldn't even prove that they had been the ones to do it. I couldn't link them to it in any way.

So I'd thrown away my one and only chance to prove that Gary Sapperstein and his friends had raped me. And when my main focus had been surviving on a day to day basis, that had been fine. Well, not fine, but it certainly hadn't torn me apart the same way it was doing now. I'd been crushed beyond belief when I'd found out that my rapist was walking free, that his other victim was dropping his charges, but even then, I'd just been feeling desolate and broken. Now, I felt angry. Responsible. I regretted not doing what I should have done and standing up to him. I regretted letting him hurt me and get away with it. And I had no proof at all anymore. I had no bruises, no physical evidence on or inside me of what he'd done...what they'd all done. Hell, I didn't even have proof that I'd ever been raped in the first place. I had nothing. And I hated that— whatever Brian and Michael said— I would never again get that chance for true justice.

I'd been lying there for about forty-five minutes, wide awake, when my restlessness became too much. Biting my lip, I slid as carefully as possible from beneath Brian's arm, now a dead weight on top of me. I grabbed my sketchbook from the nightstand and made my way to the living room, wincing every time my footfalls were just a little too loud, or my papers rustled in my hand.

I quickly lost myself in the world of Rage, JT, and the Life-Sapper. Their stories, their lives, my life. They all bled together until I couldn't quite distinguish one from the other. I drew JT and Rage, together, getting revenge on the Life-Sapper, the villain who'd assaulted JT. The monstrous creature hung in the balance of JT's laser rays— shot from his eyes, in true superhero fashion— while Rage landed a punch to his stomach.

I drew JT in Rage's arms. Drew them kissing. Drew them fucking. I drew Rage holding JT, promising that no one would ever hurt him again. I just drew. It was dawn before I finally made it to bed, crawling back beneath Brian's arm and laying my head on his chest. Finally, I was able to get back to sleep.

**~. Brian .~**

On Monday morning, I was stirred from my sleep by the sensation of fluttering kisses all down my neck and chest. I forced my eyes open and looked down my body to see Justin worshiping my stomach with his lips and tongue.

I moaned when said tongue made a circle around my navel, then gasped when his hand closed around my cock. He grinned impishly up at me, clearly satisfied that I was now awake to appreciate this, and moved back up my body to kiss me.

It was a fleeting kiss, the warmth of his lips a transitory sensation, then he was back to kissing my stomach and then my thighs. I watched him watch my cock with rapturous attention as he jerked me off, and wondered where his mind was. If he was simply thinking about how hot this all was, or if his thoughts were elsewhere. If he was thinking about sucking me, or having me fuck him. If he was taking the moment for what it was, or wondering if he should push for more, as he so often did. I got my answer when he moved closer and nudged my dick with his lips, as though trying to force himself to make them open.

He pulled away, though, and bit his bottom lip, eyes shut. Rather than let him suffer this dilemma, I gave a theatrical moan and wrapped my hand around his over my dick, bringing his attention back to jerking me off, something he could handle. It wasn't like I was complaining.

Fortunately, he gave up the idea of a blow job for now and focused on making me come. Which I did. Afterward, I lay there trying to catch my breath. He flopped down on the pillow beside me, smiling.

Just then, my alarm went off. I reached over to silence the incessant beeping.

"Feel free to replace my alarm any time you want." His version of a wake up call was about a million times better. In fact, if more people had hot young blond boys to wake them up that way every single day, no one would ever oversleep again, and the alarm clock business would become extinct.

He shifted, wiping halfheartedly at the cum on his chest. "I need a shower before we go."

I rolled to my side and drew a finger through the sticky substance on his skin. "How about I just lick it off you?"

His grin widened, and he threaded his fingers through my hair, gently pushing me back when I leaned in to clean him with my tongue. "Join me."

So we stumbled into the bathroom, kissing and groping each other all the way. I pulled the shower door shut behind us while he turned on the water, and watched as the water droplets slid down his skin.

"Your turn," I growled playfully into his ear, pushing him against the shower wall and covering him with my body. I slipped a hand between us, between his legs, and gave him a squeeze, his vocal appreciation echoing in the confined space.

He tilted his neck to the side when I started to suck a mark into his skin, making little noises of pleasure that I took great joy in procuring, never ceasing the motions of my hand on his dick.

"Mmm...we have therapy," he reminded me, but his concern for our appointment was somewhat undermined by the way he was grabbing my ass in his palms and pulling my hips into him.

"This is therapy," I said flippantly, then dropped to my knees in front of him.

His fingers dug into my shoulders almost painfully as he struggled to hold himself up. I wrapped my arms around his waist, both helping to support him and helping him to establish a rhythm. I meant to swallow him whole and get him off within a few minutes, but I found myself enjoying his enjoyment, and began backing off whenever I felt he was getting too close, drawing it out.

It was because of this that we were late— for the very first time— to our therapy appointment with Kathy. It was only by a few minutes, though, and honestly, Kathy had been through so much of our struggle along with us, I didn't think she actually minded us being a little bit late because we were having sex.

During what was left of our session, we talked about a few of our recent ventures to Liberty Avenue and beyond, Justin's medication, and, of course, our sex life. She said that Justin was clearly thriving, taking more and more of his life back with every passing day. Not that this was some brilliant professional insight; it was more than obvious to anyone who paid attention.

And so it continued. We went out to dinner on Tuesday, he went to class, and I went to work. He remained nightmare free for the rest of the week, to my relief, and other than some nausea, he didn't seem to be suffering from any severe withdrawal effects from weaning off his medication. I'd been hesitant about it at first; he'd told me that he was no longer depressed, but what if the antidepressants were the reason for this? What if our chances of a good night's sleep were completely dependent on his sleeping pills, and we were fucking all this up for no reason? What if he just wasn't fucking ready?

But it had been weeks since we'd talked to Kathy about it, since she'd set him on a schedule for discontinuing his medication, and he seemed to be doing fine, for the most part. I supposed I should have known better than to attribute all of Justin's progress to those pills— I knew it wasn't true. Knew it couldn't be. Maybe the pills had helped keep him asleep and at peace during the night, and maybe the antidepressants had helped pull him from the pit of despair he'd once been drowning in. But those had been support systems for the old Justin, the Justin who was constantly miserable and afraid, and we'd left him behind long ago. This new Justin— or rather, the return of the person he'd once been— was brighter and happier and, while he still had issues to work through, was getting stronger all the time.

**~. Justin .~**

We'd been spending more and more of our weekends out and about these days, practicing walking in crowds and getting used to being in public places. Usually, we'd start off with having me practice walking alone. We'd pick a relatively uncrowded street, then Brian would leave me there and go wait at the other end. At least, that was how it started. We'd been doing it for weeks now, and we were finally at a point where he could even go and wait around the corner for me to get to him. If he could see I was having trouble, or if I took too long, he'd come and look for me. Sometimes it was still difficult; I'd had a meltdown or two, losing myself to panic attacks, but Brian was always right there to calm me and bring me back. He'd hold my hand as we walked or pull me down an empty alley so I could take a break. Still, I liked the feeling of independence that came with doing all this. I liked trusting myself, and not having to rely solely on Brian to walk down the street. Slowly but surely, I was breaking all my limits.

This particular weekend was unusually warm, and we were taking full advantage. We'd picked one of our favorite streets today away from Liberty Avenue. I liked this street because it led to an art shop that we often visited together on weekends. Brian liked it because it included a high-end clothing store. It was the kind of place where people never checked price tags, either because they were so rich they knew they could afford it (like Brian), or because if they did look, they'd pass out from shock (like me). In other words, it was perfect for him, a true label queen at heart.

Unfailingly, each time we started getting closer to that fucking store, his pace would pick up a bit. I saw his eyes light up when the display window came into sight. Sometimes, it was as though I could read his mind. Not that he was at all elusive about it. I could see it in his eyes, that hungry look he got, where he just _had _to have the object of his desires. Often, I was the subject of such looks.

I sighed theatrically. "Not again, Brian. Come on." I knew we'd end up going in anyway, but it never hurt to complain just a little bit. Releasing Brian into a clothing store was somewhat like giving a kid a thousand dollars, releasing them into a toy-and-candy shop, and telling them to go crazy.

"Just give me ten minutes," he pleaded, never removing his eyes from their target.

"Couldn't you at least wait until I'm not around?"

But he was already dragging me by the hand towards his new favorite store, practically salivating over a pair of shoes that were, as far as I could tell, exactly identical to the ones currently on his feet.

"You already have, like, five pairs like those," I pointed out, attempting to tug him away. My efforts, however, were in vain.

"I do not," he argued.

"You're wearing them right now!"

"These are _ebony," _he said, as if explaining something very simple to someone very stupid. "Those are coal black. There's a difference, Sunshine. What kind of fag are you?"

"The kind that likes dick."

He made a face at me. "Well, then, I promise to let you jerk me off later. After I get those shoes."

I looked from the shoes to him and back. The store was having a sale, with the shoes being twenty-percent off, which still put them about three hundred dollars above anything I would ever buy without proceeding to have a coronary. "Seriously? You do see that price tag, right?"

He shrugged. "You know how expensive shoes make me hard."

I snorted. "Everything makes you hard."

"Lucky for you. Come on, it'll take me ten minutes. Tops."

He grabbed my hand, pulling me in the direction of the glass double doors.

I tugged my hand back from his grip. "Yeah right. You know you'll be in there for at least an hour. Let's go to the art store first."

"The art store's all the way around the corner and down the street," he pointed out. "We're right here. Just give me ten minutes."

Ten minutes for every article of clothing he spotted on the way to his shoes, maybe. I took a deep breath, glancing over my shoulder as a couple of people strolled by us, a knot forming in my stomach. "You go. I'll go to the art store."

"What?" He'd stopped trying to pull me into the shop, and was looking at me in disbelief. "By yourself?"

The knot twisted inside me. "Yeah, by myself. Just...come get me when you're done."

He looked back at the front doors of _Label Queens R Us,_ as I had dubbed it in my head, then back at me. "Forget it. We'll just go to the art store—"

"No," I protested, taking a step back, as if determined to show him that I could be independent from him for five minutes. Still, it was touching, that he'd give up his time in the clothing store to accompany me. "Shop. Take however long you need. I'll be fine."

He looked up and down the street, obviously struggling with the idea. It wasn't quite as crowded as usual, but it was still far from empty. "Shit, Justin..."

"Let me do it," I said, trying to force a tone that left no room for argument. "We've been walking for weeks— I walked three blocks last weekend by myself, remember?"

"Yeah..." he conceded. "But that was three blocks, and then I was right there. What if you panic?"

I shrugged, trying to appear casual, but feeling quite uncertain myself. There were a thousand things that could go wrong. A million things that could set me off. And only one person who could bring me any sort of comfort if that happened.

"Fuck," he muttered, looking from the store to me to the street corner. "Fuck...are you sure?"

I nodded, swallowing hard, not nearly as calm and together as I hoped I was coming across. Already I felt panicky and vulnerable, like a skittish animal out the open with no defenses, no protection. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide if things went wrong. No one to run to.

He sighed, and I could tell just how reluctant he was to let this happen. But he had faith in me, and did his best to trust my judgment most of the time. Which was why he leaned forward and kissed me, his lips lingering, unwilling to part from mine. I kissed him back, just as hesitant to pull away. Once I did, I was on my own. Once we broke our kiss, I was diving into terrifying, uncharted territory.

Too soon, we were pulling away, and he was giving me one last encouraging smile, and disappearing inside the clothing store. I watched him go, then turned, took a deep breath, and began my trek down the street towards the art store.

While I had indeed walked an entire three blocks on my own the previous weekend, it had been with the knowledge that Brian would be waiting for me at the end of my journey with open arms, and that if I took too long to get there, he'd come looking for me.

I had no idea how long it would be before he came to find me now, especially if he was looking at clothes. My eyes darted around the streets, sizing up its other occupants, all strolling towards their own destinations. I kept a safe distance away from the street, not wanting to get too near any passing cars. You never knew who could be inside them. I avoided the gazes of people passing me and did my best to keep a few particular people where I could see them. Burly guys, for example, especially the couple of men who checked me out, trying to catch my eye. I was all too aware that I no longer had Brian to look out for me and act as a human shield if something went wrong. And while I knew perfectly well that I was in the middle of a crowded public street, that didn't stop me from worrying. The first time I'd been attacked, it had been outside of a hotel full of people, and the second time, during a party with no shortage of guests.

I could feel my chest tightening as I made my way around the corner and down the second street. I had the unnerving sensation of eyes on my back, and repeatedly glanced behind me, my pace quickening until I was nearly jogging. Fuck, I couldn't believe I'd just willingly given up the reassurance of Brian's presence. What the fuck was I thinking?

I stopped, leaning against the nearest stretch of brick wall. Okay, _breathe. _I could do this. I could. No one was going to hurt me. It was broad daylight in a public place. Despite what all my fears would have me believe, things didn't usually happen in these types of settings, right? It was just...god, I couldn't take that again. Never, ever again.

I took another deep breath, forcing myself to relax. An hour, tops. That was all I'd have to get through, and then Brian would surely come to get me. Breathe. In and out. I pushed myself off the wall and took another step forward. These people around me were just normal people, not the monsters from my nightmares. I could do this. I could do an hour or so alone, without Brian. I could.

I forced my attention away from the throngs of people congregating on the sidewalks and concentrated instead on the little shops lining the streets. An antique store. A furniture outlet. Some restaurants. A tanning salon. Another clothing store with mannequins in the window.

I came to a halt outside one of the smaller shops, eyes locked on the window display. I felt shaken, a sinister thrill sending chills up my spine. My mouth was dry, and I knew I should keep walking, get away, but my feet were frozen to the spot.

I'd never really taken notice of it before, but there it was. An adult entertainment store. A couple of mannequins wearing sexy costumes posed in the window. A sign in front of them advertised a thirty-percent off sale on all toys, and next to it on the door was another sign warning that they asked for ID and didn't sell to minors.

I don't know why it caught my interest at all. Brian had plenty of toys at home, after all, and there was no way I was ready to try any of them again. Not yet. Some of them— such as his leather-lined cuffs, or the straps that bound a person to the bed— I wasn't sure I'd ever be up for trying again.

Still, I found my hand on the door before I could think better of it, and a moment later, I stepped inside.

"Hey."

I jumped, then realized it was only the guy behind the cashier's desk. He could only have been a few years older than me, his greasy blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. He looked me up and down, not bothering to hide his interest. My eyes quickly swept the room for other occupants, and I was relieved to spot a couple of women down one of the aisles, checking out some vibrators.

"Let me know if you need help finding anything," said Ponytail Cashier Guy. I nodded, unable to make my voice work, and stepped almost numbly down the aisle where the two women were.

It was strange to think that, a little over a year ago, I'd just begun trying these types of things out for the first time. I'd had no idea what I liked, or what I felt comfortable with. I'd only known that sex was new and exciting and I'd been grateful to have Brian to experience it with, because he knew everything about sex and a lot about me, too, and used that knowledge to make everything we did together more amazing than I knew it was possible to feel.

Now, I was basically in the exact same place as I'd been back then. Everything was new again. I didn't know what I liked or didn't like or what I could handle. I was only so fucking thankful to have Brian to help me make sense of things.

I wandered past the two women, down the aisle, and strolled past the section of adult movies. I walked through the large costume section, fingering the different outfits. The majority of them were intended for women— lingerie and slutty nurse uniforms and such— but there were some for men, too, and I couldn't help but picture Brian in the sexy male police officer garb.

I left the costumes behind and moved on to the toy aisle. Most of them I recognized; some I didn't. There were several that I decided I didn't want to know more about, and moved past them quickly. Some of them, Brian had at home. Handcuffs. Butt plugs. Anal beads. Those didn't freak me out too much.

I turned down a second isle, and suddenly felt my heart speed up, then drop right down into my stomach. My head was spinning, my lungs unable to suck in a full breath. There, right in front of me, was a jet black sling. Even in its package, it was enough to make me shudder, though the couple on the front was clearly enjoying the benefits of fucking in one. Of course, I knew the "benefits" of fucking in one firsthand, though Brian and I had never done it. I knew how easy it was for someone to tie you in one, how much they could enjoy having your body perfectly elevated to the height they desired. I knew how easy it was for men to flock to you, touch you, so many hands and bodies at once while you fought back helplessly. I knew.

Swallowing back the scream I could feel building in my throat, I moved quickly down the aisle. Fuck, I shouldn't have come in here. I should have known better. There were slings and paddles and all kinds of things that brought back a lot of bad memories. I tried to focus on the handful of great memories I had with Brian, but they were slipping through my grasp no matter how tightly I tried to hold on to them.

I stopped at the end of the aisle, forcing myself to take deep, calming breaths that left me lightheaded. If I didn't stop this, I was going to lose it. I could feel the beginnings of a panic attack creeping up inside me, and fought them back. Replace the bad with the good. That was what I was supposed to do, what Kathy was always telling me.

Okay. So. The bad? Well, that was obvious. There were several objects in this store that carried the weight of some really fucking terrifying memories. All right, but that wasn't why I'd come in here. No, I'd come in here because I'd seen this shop and thought of Brian. I'd thought of sex with him. I'd thought of us, and I'd been curious and for some reason had felt compelled to open that door and come in.

Okay, so the good— well, I also had a lot of memories of great sex with Brian and the types of things inside this shop. The first time he'd fucked me with a dildo, for instance, or the first time he'd tied me up, the first time we'd used cock rings together...so many wonderful firsts, and seconds, and thirds.

Okay. Brian. Good memories. _Breathe. _

The cashier who had checked me out earlier was staring at me, probably wondering why the hell some kid was practically hyperventilating inside his store. I'd been leaning on a shelf, but forced myself away from it now. I was still a little dizzy, but I could handle this. I could do it.

I took another deep breath and turned to leave the store, only I wasn't watching where I was going, I guess, because my side clipped a display of various types of condoms. Ponytail Guy shot me another look from behind the counter. I hastily straightened up the couple of boxes that had fallen over. Thankfully, the two women who'd been browsing the vibrators had seemingly found a winner, and Ponytail then became distracted with doing his job and checking them out.

I weighed a box of condoms in my hand. They were nothing special, though they definitely had quite a variety here. Brian had never been much for spicing things up with different types of condoms, though I had gotten him to try flavored ones once before. I sometimes wondered how I'd ever thought of the things as a nuisance, even briefly. Wondered how I'd ever taken it as a rejection of sorts when Brian had refused to fuck me without one.

Well, now I'd had my experience of fucking without a condom, and it had been the least pleasurable, least romantic, least meaningful thing in the world. And if the incident itself hadn't been horrible enough, the STD I'd been left with as a result certainly had.

So, these days, condoms meant something different to me. They meant respect. They meant love. Brian had always insisted on them because he cared about me and wanted me safe, and because he'd never put his pleasure above my safety. While I'd been nothing but an object, a plaything to Them, I meant something so much more to Brian. I meant enough to him that he wanted to take care of me, and that meant taking precautions.

I bit my lip, debating with myself. I had my wallet in my pocket, with a few bucks of cash inside. I hadn't seen condoms in the loft in the longest time. Did we even have any? Brian always used to have an entire stock of the things, and then suddenly they'd all just vanished. Most likely, he hadn't wanted me to feel pressured, so he'd taken them out of plain sight. But what had he done with them? Kept them? Used them? I mean, he had to have some lying around, right? Just in case?

I really wasn't sure what the condom situation at the loft was, but I was pretty confident that our sexual situation was moving steadily towards a place where they would again become a necessity. And what if we got to that point, and didn't have the equipment we needed? What if he'd simply removed our stash from the loft all together and taken them to work or something? The last thing we needed was to finally be ready for that, and have it foiled by something as stupid and trivial as not having condoms.

I picked up a box of a brand Brian would approve of and moved toward the counter. It felt good— like I was taking control of this. I had a say in the situation, had a say in sex, and had a say where my safety was concerned. When it happened, it was going to be my choice. When it happened with Brian, it was going to be the opposite of what it had been with Them...not a horrific, dangerous thing that took me by surprise, but something good and warm and safe. And that included making sure we took precautions and planned ahead.

I took my box to the front of the shop and set the condoms on the counter, fidgeting under Ponytail's leer.

He ran his tongue along his pierced bottom lip in what was obviously supposed to be a seductive manner. "You find everything okay?"

I nodded, glancing towards the door. The two women— the only other customers in the place— had left, leaving me quite alone with the cashier. Though this wasn't exactly a high-risk situation, the guy was still here, alone, with me. He was still clearly interested. He was still bigger than I was.

"Hey, listen..." He picked up my box of condoms, but didn't scan them. "I get off in about fifteen minutes. You, uh...you interested in gettin' off, too?"

I felt cold all over. Sick. "N-no." _He's not going to hurt you, he wouldn't._ But how did I know that for sure? How did anyone ever know if they were completely safe?

There was a beep as he scanned the box of condoms, the total I owed appearing on the screen behind the counter. I fished some money out of my wallet, eager to be going.

"You sure? We could go back to my place. I get discounts on the merchandise; I could show you a good time like you've never—"

"No." My heart was thumping madly, but my voice was surprisingly firm. "No, I— I don't want to."

The words came of their own accord. _No. I don't want to. _My fingers clenched into fists. I fought to keep my breathing even as _those _fucking memories bubbled up to the surface.

Ponytail shrugged. "Whatever. You want these in a bag?"

All at once, I felt the sweet, staggering sensation of relief slam into my gut. "No thanks."

"Here you go, then."

He rambled off a generic line about having a great day, and I grabbed my purchase off the counter, hurrying out of the store. Oddly enough, I felt just a tiny bit less freaked out than I'd been going in. I felt...fuck, I felt _empowered. _

I'd said no. I'd told him no, and nothing had happened. No one had tried to hurt me. No one had had to save me. I'd said no and he'd left me alone. It hadn't happened like in my nightmares. It was like getting on a plane after surviving a crash and suddenly realizing that they weren't _all _going to go down. It was the dark exception, not the general rule. It felt normal, like it had been before, when I'd felt perfectly fine about turning guys down if I didn't want to sleep with them. When this fear hadn't been a part of me. When I hadn't worried that every guy who looked at me might take what he wanted whether I was giving it away or not.

But it was all okay. I was okay. I'd turned him down. I'd had a choice.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone grabbed my wrist, bringing me out of my thoughts, and I spun around, fully ready to hit whoever it was out of panic and run.

Brian's mildly surprised face looked back at me. For the second time in less than two minutes, every muscle in my body relaxed. "Shit. You scared me."

"I gathered. You okay?"

"Yeah...I think I am." I _was_ okay. I was normal. I'd turned a guy down. I'd made a choice, and it had been respected. "That was fast."

"Told you it would only take ten minutes. But I thought you were going to the art store? Where were you...?" He glanced at the shop I'd just come out of, and seemed to understand. "What were you getting?"

I held up my purchase.

He raised his eyebrows. "Condoms."

"Yeah. I just thought...you know, if we needed them..."

He was pulling me closer, against his chest, leaning down to press his lips to mine. I felt his shopping bag bump lightly against my back. "Good thinking."

I closed my eyes. Yes, it felt amazing knowing I could handle the world on my own, but nothing and nowhere felt quite as safe as Brian's arms. "You already have some, don't you?"

He swiped his tongue across my lip. "Yeah. But we could always use more. I'm sure we'll use them all eventually."

I kissed him even harder in response. He was backing me slowly against the wall of the building behind me, and there was nowhere better than here, surrounded by Brian and nothing else, cut off from the world. I was more than ready to take this back home, where we could take care of each other properly.

"So, did you get a nice, expensive pair of shoes?"

"Mmm," he moaned against my lips. "Fuck, yeah. Outrageously expensive. They might as well have been a down payment on a car."

I ground myself against his leg. "Oh yeah? Did you get a hard-on?"

"Mm-hmm. I almost came in my pants."

I laughed. "Let's go back to the car...let's go home." Feeling bold, I grabbed his crotch through his pants. "You can even wear your shoes while I jerk you off, if you want."

He laughed at the idea and kissed me again. "That'll be hot. But what about the art store?"

Finally, I broke away. We had more important things to take care of at the moment than another trip to the art store. "Guess we'll just have to come back tomorrow."

He smiled and allowed me to lead him back to the jeep.

**~.~**

The box of condoms sat, unopened, on our nightstand. Brian hadn't mentioned them again, and neither had I. They were a presence of their own; every time we touched each other, every time we got off, I couldn't help thinking about them, wondering if that would be the time we opened that box and used one. I couldn't wait until we needed them again.

It was strange to think about, but they were the first thing in a long time that I'd actually bought myself. Brian took care of all our wants and needs, from bills and rent and food to smaller things, such as shampoo and coffee and paintbrushes and whatever else.

Not that I really had a choice in the matter; it wasn't like I had anything to contribute. It was just one more cut to my dignity, one more shred of independence taken from me that I had no way to pay for anything myself. I had, what, twenty bucks in my wallet, if that? I hadn't had a job since my disastrous dancing gig at Babylon, and another job hadn't been in the realm of possibility for the longest time. I appreciated everything Brian had done for me— was still doing for me— more than I could ever put into words, but there was still that thing inside me, that thing that was inside all of us...that desire to be our own person, to stand on our own two feet. And for me, that included not relying on Brian for everything. Though, ironically, wanting to be independent was exactly the reason I was so dependent on him in the first place. If I hadn't been so fucking stubborn and determined to pay for my own education, I could have still had my job at the diner. I could have still been supporting myself, at least somewhat. That party never would have happened for me.

That next Friday night, Brian was late getting home from work. I was starting to worry a little, since he hadn't said anything about going out or having a therapy appointment, but right when I was about to give in and call him, I heard the elevator outside the loft, and relaxed. My fears about being out among people extended to him, too, sometimes.

"What's that?" He was holding a brown paper bag and grinning at me.

"You're no longer on any medication, right?"

"Uh...right..."

He held out the bag, looking at me expectantly, as if I was supposed to suddenly develop x-ray vision and figure out what it was. It was definitely too small for any Prada or Armani.

I took the paper bag and peeked inside. Inside was another little bag, full of something I hadn't seen in a while. I looked up at him questioningly, a grin slowly breaking across my face.

"Really? Where'd you get this?"

He shrugged. "I have my ways. Share with me?"

We ended up on floor in front of the couch, sprawled across some cushions. I lay with my head in his lap, his fingers stroking my hair. He'd rolled us a joint, and the scent of pot now filled the air. We hadn't smoked together in a long time. He hadn't let me have drugs of any kind in months, except for my prescribed medication. Before I'd started my antidepressants and sleeping pills, it had been partly because he didn't want me dealing with things that way, and partly because of his fear of me deliberately overdosing...not on pot, but on something else that could have really hurt me. Afterward, it had been about screwing with my health, since I was already on two different medications a day and wasn't even supposed to drink while taking them.

"Hey, Brian?" I held up the joint, and he plucked it from between my fingers. "You think if I asked sometime, Debbie might let me have my old job back?"

He ran his fingers through my hair again, his knuckles gently grazing my cheek. I couldn't remember feeling this relaxed in a long time. "I think she'd probably pass out from sheer joy. Why? You thinking of asking?"

He passed the joint back, and I took a thoughtful drag. "I don't know. Maybe. It was a good job, waitering." Maybe it was because of the pot, but I couldn't quite remember what the real name of the job was, nor could I recall whether or not "waitering" was an actual word.

He laughed a little, probably at the title I'd given my former job. "Go for it, then. Whenever you're ready."

I nodded, feeling a thousand pounds lighter suddenly, as if Brian's encouraging words had been the burst of confidence I'd been needing. "Maybe I'll talk to Kathy about it, too. And wait some more...wait to ask about waitering..." For some reason, I found this funny, and chuckled a little to myself.

"Whenever you're ready," he repeated. "Plus, you know you'll have Deb there, if things get too rough. You know she'll let you take a break if you need it...step outside or whatever."

"Yeah. It'd be nice, working again. I think I'll wait until I know I can handle it all, though. You know what the customers are like."

"Coming on to you, pinching your ass..." said Brian dryly.

I shifted to look at him, my cheek brushing against his dick. "Yeah. I don't know if I can deal with all that yet."

"Guess I'll be the only one pinching that ass for now, then." He couldn't easily reach my ass in our current position, so he settled for pinching a nipple through my shirt instead. I laughed and squirmed in his lap.

"You sound so upset, too." He reached for the joint in my hand, but I held it away, taking another quick drag before handing it up to him.

He took a pull off it, then held it up in front of his face, examining it with an expression of stoned disapproval. "Fuck. We need another one."

I tugged at the zipper on his pants, conveniently at eye level. "No we don't. I've got a better idea."

He stubbed out the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table, then rolled us over together, clearly agreeing with my brilliance and jumping on board. Somehow, though, he seemed to misjudge the distance between himself and the coffee table, and hit his head with a painful sounding _thud. _

He held a hand up to his head, looking pissed off and slightly confused, as if he thought the coffee table might have suddenly jumped out and smacked him on purpose. "Fuck."

I bit my lip, trying to contain myself, then burst out laughing anyway. "Smooth."

He sneered at me, clearly not finding the situation as amusing as I did. "Fucker." And then his hands were digging into my sides, finding all my most ticklish spots, and he was pinning me to the cushions on the floor with his legs, preventing me from squirming away. I grabbed at his hands, trying to push them off, but they were relentless, so I let go of him and reached for his sides as well. Two could play at this game.

He let out a bark of laughter, trying to pry my hands from his sensitive sides, and soon we were rolling around the floor together, and tickling turned to groping, and laughing turned to kissing. I was on my back, my head spinning as he shoved my shirt up around my shoulders. It got stuck when he tried to pull it over my head, and we both fought to get it off with a bit more difficultly than I suspected we'd have had if we weren't stoned and still trying to tickle each other at the same time.

Finally, the shirt was off and I could see more than red fabric again. Next, he set to work on my pants, struggling a little with the problematic zipper and button. Finally, he managed to get both the pants and my underwear around my ankles, and I kicked them off from there.

He promptly attached his mouth to my nipple, running his tongue over it while his fingers played with the other. I decided it was extremely unfair that I was completely naked while he still had his clothes on, and resolved to rectify the situation promptly. He'd already taken off his suit jacket, but was otherwise still dressed, so I sat up, dislodging his mouth, and began awkwardly working the buttons on his shirt.

He tried to help, so that we got in each other's way, our fingers fumbling together, but eventually we managed to get all but the last button undone, so he simply pulled the shirt over his head and threw it aside. His pants and underwear were next.

At last satisfied with his nudity, I moved in to kiss him again, my head reeling. I nudged him, urging him onto his back. He landed on the cushions with a huff and didn't try to get back up again.

I took my time teasing him, kissing along his jaw, his stubble prickly beneath my lips. I licked and sucked at his neck, until I remembered that he'd complain tomorrow if I left a mark for him to wear to work, and moved down a little farther, where no one but me would see any evidence of what I did.

He made noises of deep contentment above me while I took care to give every inch of him the attention it deserved. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his skin gleaming with sweat. His every muscle was taut beneath my fingertips, so fucking perfect. My head was spinning, and all I knew, all I was aware of, was the heat between us, the desire I had for him. I peeked up his body to see him watching me with rapt attention. His fingers sifted through my hair, and then there was just longing, just boldness, just recklessness.

I kissed his stomach, right below his belly button, where that little trail of hairs led down to the full nest of auburn. His breath caught when I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock.

I took a deep breath. His head had fallen back to the cushions, though his fingers remained in my hair. He was waiting, I knew, for me to make a move. To jerk him off. To do something.

So I did.

His gasped— maybe in pleasure, maybe in surprise, maybe both— when my lips closed around the head of his dick. I felt a jolt of something shoot through me, something like exhilaration, tinged with a touch of anxiety. I tried to force myself to stay calm, to focus on his hands in my hair, the sounds he was making. It was just Brian, I had to remember that. I wanted Brian. I wanted to do this.

Slowly, I began to fall into a rhythm. I listened for his appreciative groans, concentrated on the way he felt and the way he smelled and everything about him that was so different from the last time I'd had a cock down my throat. And what a fucking difference it was. It was hot. It was sultry and sensual. It wasn't rough or painful, and he was letting me set the pace. It was also a bit _more _than I remembered, but I wasn't choking too much. He ran his fingers through my hair, clenching and releasing, practically petting me at times. I think it was meant to be soothing, so I concentrated as much on that as on what I was doing to him.

I'd missed this. I'd missed this weight in my mouth, this taste of him on my tongue. I'd missed his hands in my hair, his pre-cum leaking from his cock, the way his hips pushed up towards me, unable to keep still. I'd missed all of it, the whole experience, and until right now I hadn't realized just how much.

I also missed the confidence this inspired. Unfortunately, that was something I was quickly figuring out wasn't coming back quite so easily. His breathy gasps and groans filled my ears, got me hard, but it wasn't enough. If I was to judge solely on the sounds he was making, I'd say I was doing an okay job, but I couldn't be completely sure he wasn't exaggerating a bit to make me feel better about my rusty skills. Part of it was instinctual, much like the very first time I'd done it, but I knew there was also a world of difference between the first blow job I'd ever given him and the last one I'd given him before the party, and right now I was pretty sure my abilities were falling somewhere in the former camp. I knew I used to be good at this, used to be great, but right then I just felt extremely overwhelmed and nervous and vulnerable and rather underwhelming myself.

I couldn't stop, though, not now, and in truth, I didn't even want to. Despite everything, I was enjoying myself, and while he probably wouldn't be blown away, so to speak, this time...well, at least I'd get him off, and I could try again another time at being amazing. Maybe eventually I'd get back to the place where this made me feel sexy and self-assured, and I could relax a little more. I used to love this— it was one of the best parts of being gay, in my opinion— and I was determined to love it again.

He was starting to mumble obscenities under his breath, his fingers clenching my hair even tighter. I quickened my pace, my head bobbing up and down over his dick. I knew what was coming before it happened, felt him tense, and then suddenly he was coming in my mouth, a salty taste spilling across my tongue. I tried to keep my lips around the head of his dick and swallow my mouthful, but I ended up choking a bit anyway. Great. Really hot. Really dignified.

I finally managed to stop spluttering and catch my breath, but he'd already sat up, his hand cupping the back of my neck. His lips were against mine before I could say anything, and he was pushing me gently down on the cushions, his body covering mine completely. His hands and lips were everywhere, and it was too fucking intense to keep up with, and I was so breathless and still a little high and I'd just sucked him off and now he was on top of me, mouth on my chest, my stomach, my dick...oh God, I was so hard, and he felt so good...

I surrendered to the blinding white behind my eyelids, the heat, the bliss. The lingering effect of the pot, combined with the effect that Brian had on me and the realization of what I'd just done was overpowering, leaving me no choice but to give in and ride the wave of emotions crashing over me. Far too soon, the pleasure became too much to take, and I was coming into Brian's mouth, his lips releasing my cock only after he'd licked up every last drop I had to offer him.

He gave the head of my dick a few extra licks before coming up to kiss me. I could taste myself on his lips and tongue, wondered if he could taste himself as I kissed him back. I wanted to say so many things to him, so many words vying to escape my throat. But that would have required me to move away from him, break this contact, and I had no desire to ever do so. That, and my head was whirling far too intensely for me to be sure anything I said would come out even remotely coherent right now.

So instead, we just lay there together for the longest time, bodies entwined, and didn't stop kissing for what felt like forever. We didn't have to.

Right then, we were limitless.


	35. Tomorrow

**~. Brian .~**

The downfall of picking up tricks was that, no matter how hot they were, you never had any idea how they were going to be in bed. They ranged from great to not bad to horribly untalented, and of course, it wasn't like they walked around with flashing neon signs announcing which they were before you picked them up.

One good thing about fucking the same person more than once was that they eventually came to know your body better than you did yourself. Justin knew exactly what I liked, how I liked it, and knew just how long to do it to drive me crazy without making me come.

He'd sucked me off for the first time in forever just a few days ago, and since then he'd reminded me on several occasions just how talented he was at it.

Now, I was on my knees in the shower, his dick down my throat, reminding him just where he'd learned it all. Or at least most of it— I swear he'd been fucking natural at giving head since the first time he'd done it.

He shook and shuddered and swore all through his orgasm. I gave the head of his softening dick a few extra licks and stood up, grinning a little smugly when he simply stood there, breathing hard, against the shower wall. I could still make him fucking breathless, something I took particular pride in. I didn't give many blow jobs except for the ones I gave him.

I got to my feet and grabbed the soap from its dish. I ran it over his chest, making little soapy circles over his nipples. Shielding him from the water with my body, I covered his stomach and chest in a thick white layer of soap and proceeded to draw a crude dick-and-balls image on his skin with my finger.

"I'm loving the soap art," he said appreciatively, looking down at my work with a raised eyebrow.

"It's a talent. You're not the only artist around here."

He laughed and kissed me, my soap art smearing between our bodies as we alternated between kissing and soaping each other. I reached behind him to slide my hands down his back, cupping his ass and kneading his cheeks. He groaned and pushed his hips into me. Squirming out of my arms, he pushed me gently back against the shower wall and sank to his knees. The soap landed on the floor with a thud_,_ and I wasn't even aware who had dropped it.

I moaned as he began jerking my cock, a hunger apparent on his face as he watched his own fist moving on me. He blinked rapidly as water fell in his eyes, then closed them and leaned forward to wrap his lips around the head of my dick. I groaned again, and it took everything I had not to thrust forward into his hot, wet mouth.

Even after all this time, he still gave a spectacular blow job. He'd seemed a little insecure a couple of days ago, after he'd blown me that first time, but there was really no reason for it. He was still a natural at it. Still genuinely enjoyed doing it, I could tell.

Watching him sucking me off was hotter than almost anything, but as hard as I tried to keep my eyes open to watch, eventually it just became too much and I closed them, slumping against the shower wall, just riding the pleasure he was giving me. He had one hand wrapped around the base of my dick; the other slid up my chest, and I curled my fingers around his. My free hand was in his hair, gripping and releasing and petting in a way that was meant to both sooth and urge him on.

It was the most exquisite thing, his talented tongue and mouth on me, and it didn't take me long at all to come. I felt a little guilty when he coughed and spluttered, spitting my come into the shallow pool of water at our feet. Out of the four times he'd sucked me off in the last couple days, there hadn't been a time yet when he'd been able to swallow. He used to do it all the time, or else he'd keep it in his mouth and share it with me through a kiss, but now it seemed he couldn't help choking. I was beginning to think it was a psychological thing, probably related to some unpleasant memory he had. He didn't seem too bothered by it, though; he turned down my earlier suggestion that I pull out before I came in his mouth, anyway. So I tried to just let it go and not think too much about what they'd done to give him this problem in the first place.

I ran my fingers through his hair, making it stick up in every direction for a few moments until the water flattened it back down. He climbed to his feet and his mouth found mine, the kiss as much for pleasure as for reassurance. My tongue swept against his, running over all the places my cock had been just moments before.

One thing about this most recent development in our sex life was the fact that actual sex didn't seem quite so far out of the realm of possibility anymore. On the contrary, it felt close enough to touch. What was holding us back, really? Our mutual fear? While that may have been a very valid reason, we were no longer at a place where sex was definitely out of the question because there was no way he could handle it. We actually didn't know if he could or not, and yes, that was the problem, but the question of whether or not we should or could do it was much more ambiguous now than it had ever been before.

The box of condoms Justin had bought during one of our weekend outings sat on our nightstand, untouched. I had a few still stashed here myself just in case. They wouldn't have lasted us two days in the pre-party era. There were a few at the bottom the nightstand drawer, one under a couch cushion, and one in the drawer of my computer desk, and that was it. Granted, whenever we did start having sex again, it would probably take us a while to even get through those, but if Justin was thinking we might soon be needing condoms...well, that could only be a good sign. Whenever it happened, I knew he was determined that it be as different as humanly possible from _that _night in every way. Safety was a major part of that. And I was another.

~.~

On Thursday, I muttered a halfhearted something to Justin about therapy with Carl that night before I left for work in the morning. I met Mikey for a drink at Woody's after work, casually scanning the bar for a potential trick while simultaneously listening to Michael talking about his mother's fussing over one of the kids who'd gotten bashed a few weeks ago. Apparently it had been some drag queen around Justin's age, a diner regular that Deb was particularly fond of, and she'd had Michael and Ben running food over to his place several days a week.

I was listening, but when he said that the kid had decided not to identify his attackers to the police, I stopped cruising the guy down the bar behind Michael and really paid attention.

"He's not identifying them?"

Michael seemed a little taken aback by my sudden vehemence on behalf of the bashed kid, but after a second this gave way to mild satisfaction that he now had my undivided attention. "No. Ma said she had a talk with him, and the kid's scared of retribution. Can't blame him, I guess, considering what they did to him without any provocation at all."

I swore softly, not sure why I cared so much, except that I did. As far as I knew, I'd never met the kid, but in my mind's eye I saw Justin's face, Justin's pain reflected in clear blue eyes. I pictured baseball bats I'd seen firsthand and slings I hadn't. I pictured a high school jock and a sleazy club owner, and all the evil they personified.

Michael cleared his throat and directed his question to his beer bottle. "So, uh...how are things coming with you and Carl?"

My gut clenched in something remarkably like guilt. "I've definitely the one guy on board, finally. Maybe the Sap's old friend, too."

"That's great. So...when exactly is this all supposed to happen?"

When, indeed. "Matt says he'll do his part soon. He wants to talk to his partner first, so when he gets back from overseas, Matt's going to tell him everything."

"So...his partner doesn't even know he was...?"

"He doesn't know anything."

Michael looked slightly horrified and shook his head. "God, if Ben came to me one day and told me something like that, I don't know what I'd do."

I stared into the bottom of my glass. "Yes, you do. You'd do exactly what you did when he told you he had HIV."

"What?"

"You'd love him anyway, through everything. And you'd take care of him as long as he'd let you."

Michael made a soft noise of agreement. "Okay, yeah, I would. Just like you did with Justin."

I cleared my throat and tossed back the rest of my drink. "Anyway, I told Carl all I know about the drug deals going on in the clubs. We're sure Sapperstein's involved in it, which should be enough to earn him some time at least, even if the rest of it falls apart. I know you thought he was a dick when your mother first started fucking him, but if it wasn't for the detective, I wouldn't have gotten this far."

This wasn't even a formal report, or something that had come across his desk. Of course, much of Carl's willingness to help was probably because of Debbie's connection to Justin and myself, but he had done a lot for the cause. He believed in what he was doing, in helping to get a dangerous man off the streets and making him pay for the crimes he'd committed.

"I might have been a little quick to judge," Mikey admitted. "I guess a homophobic prick wouldn't be helping you and Justin like this."

I shrugged. "Probably not. But I am hoping we get a homophobic prick of a judge during Sapperstein's trial."

Michael snorted. "Who would think intolerant bigotry could ever be a good thing?"

"If it gets Sapperstein put away longer, I don't give a shit if the judge is the most bigoted asshole on the fucking planet." I wondered if it would be possible to give the judge who had presided over at the trial against Hobbes a call and tell him we had a fag he could punish to his heart's content.

"So...when are you planning to tell Justin about all of this? Don't you think it's pretty much just a matter of time now?"

I brushed him off. "There's no point telling him anything before it happens. The drug deals are one thing, but the trial for the other shit could be a long way off—"

"You're not thinking of waiting until then?" Michael's tone had grown stern and hard, so that he sounded freakishly like Debbie. "Come on, Brian, that could take forever and you know it. I think he might actually be relieved if he knew. I was talking to him a couple weeks ago about those two kids getting bashed, and I think he regrets not doing something, pressing charges..."

"You didn't see him after that one dancer dropped the charges against the Sap," I said coldly.

"Maybe not. But don't you think you're taking the secrecy shit a little far?"

"No."

"But..."

"Christ, Michael," I said, aggravation settling in. "You weren't there. You didn't see what it did to him."

It had been just me and Justin up on that rooftop that night. It had been just me and Justin, working through that trauma and others in hours of therapy. Justin had gone through hell, and Justin wouldn't suffer through anything else because of this asshole; I was going to make sure of it.

"Well, maybe I didn't see it then, but I see what it's doing to him now," he said, sounding quite irritated himself. "I don't know what the fuck happened back then, but whatever it is, it's over."

"It's over," I agreed. "It's not done."

"Don't you think he feels like that?" he challenged. "What that asshole did...I think it would help him if he knew what you were doing. He doesn't need protecting, he needs closure."

"And since when did you become such an expert on what he needs?" _He_ hadn't been the one to hide Justin's medicine, to sit through therapy every week, to hear of the horrors he'd gone through and watch him struggle not to die under the weight of it all. "You weren't there. You don't know anything."

Michael didn't have an answer for that. I took a sip of my drink, grimly satisfied that I'd shut him up.

"I just think you should trust him and tell him, that's all," he grumbled at last. "The past is the past."

An annoying, nagging worry tugged at my mind. That maybe he might have a point and might know what he was talking about more than I did. Fuck. Was I so caught up in the past that I was jeopardizing the future? It wouldn't have been the first time I'd gotten caught up in memories. It had taken me months to trust Justin with his medication, with being okay with him staying home alone after finding all those old drawings he'd done of his own fucking corpse. Was this just an extension of my inability to let things go when I needed to?

On the other hand, even if that was the case...was it not justified? Yeah, Justin had been hurting months before what he'd attempted to do on that rooftop. But he'd also promised me that he'd never go that far, never try to end things that way. But then the charges were being dropped against Sapperstein and right after that he'd gone and done it anyway and tried to take his own life. I couldn't ignore the timing; Sapperstein going free had been the thing that had pushed him over the edge. But Mikey was right...it was the past. Justin was...fuck, he wasn't even the same person he'd been back then. He'd changed, I'd changed. Everything had changed since then, hadn't it?

~.~

Justin was in the shower when I got home. I thought about slipping in and surprising him, but as I started stripping of my clothes, something caught my eye. One of his sketchbooks was open on the bed. I sank onto the mattress and picked it up. His sketches, as well as being a valuable insight into the inner workings of his mind, were usually more entertaining and hot than disturbing these days.

He'd been working on one of his Rage and JT stories again, and I flipped back a bit to get to the beginning. He was getting good with this comic form thing; he'd obviously been looking through the examples Michael had sent him.

The scene started off in what appeared to be a bedroom. JT sat on the bed, a blanket pooled around his waist. Rage stood in the middle of the page, a hand in his hair, anxiety pouring off him in waves.

"A mind-control chip?" read the caption beneath JT, scribbled inside a little rectangular box. "The Life-Sapper planted a mind-control chip in my head?"

"Yes. The longer the chip is in your head, the harder it will be to fight," read Rage's caption. "It will trick your mind into hallucinating and seeing horrible things. The Life-Sapper will use it to torture you until you go insane and join him in his evil plans."

I flipped to the next page, which featured JT clutching his head, eyes squeezed shut, clearly in terrible agony.

"Make it stop! Rage, help me!"

Next page. Rage was on the bed next to JT now, arms around the terrified man still holding his head in his hands.

"None of it's real, JT. He can't beat you. We must destroy the chip and thwart the Life-Sapper's evil plans before he gains control of the world and everyone in it!"

I turned the page again, impressed by Justin's artistic talent, despite the cliche take-over-the-world plot.

"How do we do that?" read JT's caption..

Rage was smiling. "We must have hot sex. It is the only thing that will short out the Life-Sapper's mind control chip and free you from it! Then we will convince everyone in the world to have hot gay sex too, and everyone else will be saved, too!"

I snorted. Maybe if all comics had gone like this, I would have liked them as much as Michael always had.

What followed was, predictably, a variety of very erotic scenes. JT with Rage's dick in his mouth. Rage with his face buried in JT's ass. JT riding Rage. Rage fucking JT in midair.

I was contemplating this one— it looked like quite a strain on Rage's arms and JT's legs— when the bathroom door creaked open, and Justin appeared in the doorway.

"Hey, you're home. I didn't think you'd be back for a while. How was therapy?"

I felt my heart free-fall and land somewhere in my lower stomach. I'd almost managed to forget what I'd promised myself all the way home I would be doing tonight.

Though I'd certainly tried, I couldn't ignore what Michael had said. Sapperstein's trial would be a long way off. I couldn't possibly hide this from Justin for years to come. I would have to tell him before that. I would have to tell him before he found out through someone else, the way I'd found out that he'd been hurt in the first place. I knew from experience how horrible it was to have to hear it from someone else and put two and two together.

Besides, at least something was almost definitely going to happen now. I had Carl on my side, not to mention the entire legal system. There were still a few pieces of the puzzle that carried the threat of not fitting right, but at this point, it was almost certain that there would be repercussions for Sapperstein.

Maybe now was the right time to let Justin know what those might be.

"Those are hot," I said, stalling and gesturing in the vicinity of the sketchpad. He was wearing nothing but a towel, and I felt my dick stir, its interest piqued.

I forced the thought of his wet, naked body out of my mind. I had something to do first. I had to tell him. He would be pissed, probably, because I'd lied to him for so long and kept this hidden, but it was almost definitely better to tell him sooner than later. Probably.

He sat down on the bed and leaned toward me. I could see every droplet of water on his skin. His hair was wet and darker than usual. A bead of water slid over his chest. I wanted to lick it.

"Which ones did you like?" he asked, blinking innocently as one of his hands slid beneath the towel he wore. I watched it move, knew exactly what that hand was doing under there. "Brian?"

Fuck. No. I had to tell him first. But he was smirking, waiting for me to do something, to say something. I looked at him, into those fucking blue eyes, and felt a pang of guilt. He trusted me so much. He trusted me more than anyone in the world, and I'd lied to him for months while I figured out what it was I wanted to do, how I needed to go about it, and finally began working on my plan.

He had my hand in his now, tired of waiting and letting me watch, and then he was shoving my hand up under the towel to join his. He made a little noise of pleasure and closed his eyes, the tip of his tongue sticking out just a bit. Fuck, now I wanted to lick that, too.

So I leaned forward and kissed him. He didn't close his mouth or pull his tongue away, but slid it out further and into my mouth. I pulled away before it could get too far.

"In a minute," I said as he tried to move forward and follow my lips. "I've got to tell you something."

"What?" he asked, breathless with excitement, evidently expecting it to be something dirty. He started to move my hand on his dick, but I pulled it away, out from beneath the towel. "Brian, what?"

He looked at me, a frown on his face, his forehead creased in concern.

"I—" Fuck. Why did I have to do this now? He was in such a good mood. There was no reason to ruin it. He clearly wanted sex, and Kathy said that he should trust himself and his instincts, his urges. Why should I get him pissed off at me when I could give him a blow job instead? Why should I deny either of us something we wanted? "I, uh...I liked those drawings," I finished feebly.

"Oh." He looked surprised, having expected something more serious. He glanced at the sketchbook, which I'd left open on the page with the floating-in-midair fuck. "Good. So, which one did you like best? Maybe we can do it."

"Doubt it. As of right now, I don't have the power of levitation, so..."

He grinned. "We can do something else," he said, scooting closer again. And then he was in my arms and was kissing me, and it was so hard to think, so hard to even breathe. His body was damp against mine, soaking through my shirt, his hair cool and wet in my grip, his lips warm and soft on my skin. And I couldn't do it. I couldn't ruin this.

"I could suck you," he whispered as I rolled him over onto his back. There was something soft on my thighs as I settled on top of him, and I realized he still had the damn towel on, his cock straining against the fabric. I ripped it open, leaving him exposed, then made myself comfortable again. With his legs now free, he wrapped them around my waist, holding me there. I rocked my hips against him, our cocks pressed together between us.

I buried my face in his neck. Licked it. "I know what we can do."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Roll over."

I didn't usually make such requests when we were naked; usually, we were face to face, for obvious reasons. But I kept my tone light, everything about me as reassuring as possible, from my expression to the way I touched him. Gentle. Non-threatening.

He offered me a small smile and slowly rolled over beneath me. I drank in the sight of him, his perfect skin and ass. I let my hand follow the path of my eyes, trailing over his body. He shivered at my touch.

"I'll talk to you," I assured him. "So you can hear my voice. Just tell me if you need to stop."

He nodded, grabbing for a pillow, which he bunched up under his head. "Okay. Ready. Just— talk, please."

I obliged. "You look hot like this," I whispered, leaning down to kiss the base of his neck. "This is how you looked that first night you were with me. All spread out like this, just waiting for me to fuck you." Another shudder from him. Another kiss from me, this time to his back.

I let out a breathy laugh against his skin. "You remember? I taught you—"

"What rimming is." His voice was a cross between amused reminiscence and sheer longing. He knew. He knew, now, what was coming. Where I was planning on taking this. "Oh, God, Brian..."

"You tasted good," I remembered. "Like sweat— and sex." I gave his ass cheek a kiss now, too, then moved down to lick where his ass met his leg.

"I definitely remember that lesson," he managed to grit out, barely, as halfway through his statement, I ran my tongue along his crack, comparing it to the flavor he'd had that first night.

"You taste the same," I told him, surprising myself by remembering what he'd even tasted like that first night. There weren't many sexual encounters I remembered in detail. Usually I just remembered things like if the guy was good or not, or how big his cock was. Then again, that only applied to the vast majority of tricks I'd had, and Justin didn't really fall into that category. "Do you want me to?"

"Yeah...yeah, do it." His fingers were gripping the sheets tightly, his knuckles white. He thrust his ass back at me, and I took that as my cue.

He gasped and writhed against the sheets when my tongue met his hole. I licked him a few times, then lifted my head. "You okay?"

"Uh...uh-huh," he grunted.

I smiled and lowered my face back to his ass. Flattening my tongue, I gave his hole a few more licks. I swirled my tongue around, just tasting, losing myself in his scent and taste and feel. Letting him intoxicate me. Then I pushed the tip of my tongue inside him and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

This continued for several more minutes. I'd get him crazy by licking him, tracing every wrinkle with my tongue, then I'd stick it inside him, then I'd pull it back out and kiss him like I was kissing his mouth instead. And all the while he groaned and gasped and twisted around on the bed.

Finally, he told me to let him roll over, his voice muffled by the bed. I let him up and barely had time to register the look of desire on his face before he was in my lap, pulling me into him, his lips crashing into mine. His hands tangled in my hair, pulling, holding me close with an almost painful grip.

I landed on my back with a grunt when he threw us onto the mattress, and he was still on me, still kissing me with abandon. His tongue was in my mouth, tangling with mine as our bodies tangled the same way.

Then all at once, it was gone. Justin had rolled off me, and before I could ask what he was doing and if he was okay, before my fears had really even taken hold of me, he held up his answer to my unspoken questions between two fingers.

I stared at the condom in his hand.

**~. Justin .~**

Somewhere, someone was laughing at me. Possibly, this voice existed only inside my head. Possibly, it was the same voice that whispered in my ear, that told me that I was helpless against the world, that I should always be afraid of it. And now this voice in my head was laughing, asking me what the fuck I thought I was doing with a fucking condom. Didn't I know I wasn't allowed this? Didn't I know this was against the rules these days?

But Brian wasn't laughing. Brian wasn't telling me to stop being as ridiculous as I felt, thinking this was a possibility. Maybe he couldn't see the fear inside me. Maybe I just looked brave or determined to him and not stupid, filled with fantasies about things I just didn't get to have in my life anymore. Things I just wasn't allowed now that they'd been stolen from me.

Maybe to him right now, I looked like the strong person I wanted to be. Was trying to be, because he was so fucking beautiful, and it had been months since I'd felt as amazing as I had a few minutes ago with his tongue inside me, and I wanted that feeling back times a thousand.

He didn't say anything for the longest moment, his eyes meeting mine, our silent conversation connecting us in a way words never could. Finally, he tilted his head, as if to say, _go for it. _

My hands shook as I tried to open the wrapper. He took pity and plucked it from my fingers, tearing it open like I'd seen him do a million times before. But this wasn't like the million times before. This was new territory. Dangerous territory.

I'd wanted to put it on him myself, but couldn't quite make my voice work to tell him this, and my hands were still shaking anyway. He rolled it onto his cock, and I looked away before I could stop myself.

He reached up to wrap a hand around the back of my neck, gently guiding me back down to lie across his body. He kissed me softly. I knew this language well, this way of speaking, and when he told me through kisses to relax, that I was safe, that he wouldn't hurt me, that I was loved, I replied with love and adoration and gratitude of my own.

Now that he was wearing a condom, I wasn't sure if I felt better or worse. I felt better knowing this time I would be protected, that this time was different, but I knew there was nothing to stop us now. He could do it. Could push inside me. And there was such a flurry of nerves inside my stomach I wasn't sure how I felt about that beneath the overwhelming anxiety.

He pressed his forehead to mine, his lips hovering above my mouth. "Are you sure?"

I huffed a little nervous laugh. "No," I admitted quietly, as if I might shatter this completely if I spoke too loudly. "But I want to try. I want you..."

Another kiss, warm and safe and happy. Things I associated with Brian. So different than..._It. _But was it different enough? Were we ready for this?

"Let me get you ready."

I nodded, rolling off him to lie on the bed at his side. He reached for the lube, making my heart hammer in my chest, but he didn't immediately head for my ass. He kissed me again, his hands roaming my body, his lips and tongue worshiping every inch of skin they moved across, and fuck, I'd never known him to be this fucking gentle, except maybe that first time after prom.

He sucked my cock for a little while, not enough to make me come, but enough to make me relax a bit and feel good. And then he was popping open the lube cap, and I was laying my head back against the pillow and trying to breathe, suddenly feeling a little dizzy.

"You okay?"

I nodded, planting my feet on the mattress, my legs apart so I wouldn't get in his way. I was completely exposed, and it took all of my willpower not to put my knees together, or even pull him between my legs and wrap them around his waist. Anything not to feel so open and vulnerable.

My breath hitched as the lube touched my skin. "It's cold," I said before I could stop myself.

He made a noise of amusement. "It'll heat up."

Our eyes met, and I smiled at the memory his words conjured up. It was even scarier now than it had been back then. And it was a totally different type of fear, just as it was a different type of determination that urged us on.

"I'm just going to open you up." He flexed his fingers as if to demonstrate what he would be using, waiting for my permission.

I nodded. I gasped when his finger pressed inside me and sank my teeth into my lip. It had been a long time since I'd had anything in me besides his tongue just now. So far it didn't hurt too much, was more cold and uncomfortable than anything, but I fought the urge to squirm away from the invasion. I knew from experience that it always got better, and I wanted so badly for this to end in something good.

"Okay?"

I choked out something in the affirmative. To my relief, he started pulling his finger out again, but then he pushed it back in, slowly fucking me with it. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, overwhelmed by the fact that his finger was actually fucking inside me, getting me ready for his cock. It was exhilarating and petrifying at once. I gripped the sheets tightly in my hands, struggling to breathe.

"Ready for another one?"

I didn't want to think about how badly it was going to hurt when his whole dick was inside me, so I nodded again, wanting to be as open as possible when we got there. I'd gone from getting fucked at least four times a day to...well, _It..._and then just...nothing. It was going to feel like my first time all over again, him stretching me open beyond what I could imagine.

As if to prove me right, the second finger hurt worse than the first. He slowed his movements even more, easing me open.

"You alright?"

I squeezed my eyes shut momentarily, but didn't like the fact that I couldn't see him, so I quickly opened them again. "I don't know."

"Want to stop?"

I hissed as I shifted my hips and felt his fingers move inside me. The pain was starting to ebb, the hint of real pleasure just barely out of my reach. "Fuck. I don't know...I don't know if I can do this."

"Relax— I'm going to pull out."

"You don't have to—"

"I know. Just relax."

I did, and a second later he slid his fingers from my body, leaving me empty. I couldn't deny the relief, however, and closed my eyes briefly as my slightly uneven breathing returned to normal, my legs dropping back to the bed. "I just said I wasn't sure, not that I didn't want to keep going."

He pulled the unused condom off his dick and tossed it aside. "Well, it's risky enough as it is. If you can't handle it when I have a couple of fingers inside you...we're not taking that chance."

I sighed. It was probably for the best that we didn't try anything more right now, but it had just been starting to feel a little bit good, and this emptiness was almost worse than the fear had been.

I was about to reach for my underwear when he surprised me by laying a hand on my cock. Not grabbing or even holding, just...touching.

"You're still hard," he noticed, starting to stroke me almost absentmindedly.

My breath caught in my throat, my interest returning at once, my disappointment rapidly dissipating. If I couldn't have him inside me, at least I could still have this.

His eyes flitted between my face and his own hand, leisurely working my cock. "So fucking hot..." I groaned and arched into his hand. "You want me to jerk you off or suck you?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but then he rubbed his thumb across the head of my cock, and my breath was stolen away.

He seemed to understand, and leaned down to kiss me, resting half of his weight on me. His swiped his tongue across my lower lip, teasing me. He nuzzled my neck, then licked that too before sucking on the same spot, no doubt leaving a mark behind. I was feeling pleasantly high, as though I'd taken something before starting this with him.

He was moving down my body now, further and further until his mouth was around my dick. It was so warm, so wet and wonderful, all I wanted to do was pull him in, closer, forever against me, with me, in me.

I wanted this feeling, always.

I wanted him every day for as long as I could have him.

And someday, I would again have him in every way possible.

~.~

Daphne choked on her soda, her eyes widening, oblivious to the fact that the guy behind the concession counter had just given her her popcorn and announced her total.

"Oh my God, you had sex?"

The teenaged employee raised his eyebrows, and I heard somebody behind us in line snicker.

"Say it louder, Daph, I don't think the people inside the theaters actually heard you."

She had the decency to look slightly abashed as she slid a couple bucks over the counter, and I followed her over to the toppings stand. She grabbed some napkins while I squirted an obscene amount of butter on my popcorn, and then we headed for the movie theater depicted on our tickets.

"So, the sex?" she demanded once we were a reasonable distance from the small crowd who now, thanks to her, was quite aware that I'd had sex, which was true, but not in the way she was thinking. "What happened? When did this start?"

I let out a deep breath, relaxing a little now that we were away from the main mob of moviegoers. "It didn't. I mean— we didn't actually go that far. We were just fooling around, like we have been."

Maybe it had been a mistake to say anything at all. It had started when she'd called earlier this afternoon; Brian and I had been in bed— not sleeping— so I'd let the call go to voice mail. Later, when she'd confessed it had been starting to look as though she'd have to go to the movies alone, I'd grinned and told her I was sorry, but Brian and I had been busy in bed. Thus, her exclamation at the concession counter.

She pressed her lips together, nodding, even though she looked slightly disappointed. "Oh. Well, that's better than nothing, right?"

"Definitely. And we kind of almost did it, once. Or...we were going to, anyway." It had been a week ago that I'd tried to let Brian actually fuck me, and never gotten further than his fingers. He seemed to be waiting for me to bring it up before we tried it again, and though it was always at the forefront of my mind, I hadn't suggested anything.

Inside the theater, we got a whole row to ourselves, and it was quiet and nice and not scary at all to sit there with my best friend. The previews came on and we discussed which ones we'd like to see and which ones looked fucking stupid. I was glad for the chance to get out and see a movie with Daphne. We'd been talking about going out and doing something fun for a while now, but my nerves had held me back.

I was getting out more and more these days with Brian, too. A couple of times I even went off by myself, though never more than a few streets away or for longer than twenty minutes or so at a time. I would browse the shelves inside the art store I loved so much while Brian shopped for shoes or shirts or ties or whatever a few streets away, then he would come and find me and it would be great, because I was finally starting to do things on my own again. I still tried to avoid crowds as much as possible, so we kept away from the busier stores and he always accompanied me to the diner, but at this point I was feeling more confident than I'd been since It had happened.

This new comfort had led to me saying yes when Daphne had asked me to come see a movie with her. It wasn't too difficult, either. She even held my hand if I needed her to, and I felt safe with her. Also, at two-thirty, most people were at school or work, and we were seeing one of the relatively unpopular movies instead of the huge hits that everyone wanted to see, so the theater was mercifully uncrowded.

An older couple in their sixties inched their way along the row in front of us. The woman beamed at me and Daphne, as if we were the sweetest sight she'd ever laid eyes on.

"She probably thinks we're a couple," I whispered in Daphne's ear.

She grinned and giggled. "If she only knew."

I smiled too, and stole some of her popcorn.

~.~

I didn't get home until after six. After the movie, Daphne and I had wandered around the mall for a while, stopping at the food court and discussing what had turned out to be a rather stupid movie with mediocre acting. Somehow, though, we'd enjoyed it as though it had been an award winning film.

Brian was at the counter, eating out of a carton when I got in. "Hey. How was the movie?"

"It sucked. And not in a way you'd appreciate," I said, leaning in for a kiss hello. "But Daph and I had fun."

"Good. There's more in the fridge." He held up his little box of Chinese food. "No problems? You've been gone a while. I take it that's a good sign?"

I nodded and went to get some more food. "Really good. We got something to eat afterward and just hung out. She stayed with me the whole time and everything. It was a lot of fun."

"Nothing like a dinner and movie date with your girlfriend," he said in a playfully mocking voice as I sat down next to him.

I made a face at him. "Maybe my boyfriend should take me out on more dates," I said, mostly because I knew it would make him squirm.

"Well, I tried to book a moonlit carriage ride around the park for the evening, dear, but then I realized we didn't live in a shitty romance novel."

I grinned. "You doing anything tonight?"

"Mhm. Woody's with the guys later."

"Have a good time."

"Do you want to go?"

"Not this time. I've got a lot of homework to catch up on." Maybe if I got done, I'd draw a bit, too. I had a new Rage and JT story I was working on.

I kissed him goodbye when he left a few hours later and sat down with a pile of school work. After three hours or so during which a small dent was made in my work, I was starting to regret going to the movies at all. Except...well, not really, because it had been pretty great. The movie, as I'd told Brian, had thoroughly sucked, but that was besides the point.

Brian got home around two-thirty in the morning, long after I'd given up on homework for the night and started drawing instead. I was happily concentrating on the proportions of Rage's dick when he came in, looking rather somber. I expected him to smell like booze or at least like another guy, but I didn't smell anything of the sort when he kissed me.

"How was Woody's?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "The usual. Annihilated Ted in pool, got a blow job from a hot guy with no talent to speak of. What are you working on?"

I held it out for him to see. "Just Rage again."

He glanced down at my sketchpad. "Impressive."

"Thanks."

"I meant Rage's cock."

I laughed and shoved him away.

He suggested that we shower together before bed, so I put aside my sketches for the time being and followed him to the bathroom. He groped my ass and kissed me for a while before finally dropping to his knees and sucking me off. I happily reciprocated, and though I choked a bit when he came in my mouth, heat rising in my face, he assured me that I'd done a much better job than the guy he'd had earlier who had nearly gnawed his dick off. He kissed me again afterward, his tongue sweeping inside my mouth and tasting the traces of come left behind.

As a result of our activities in the shower, we were both sleepy when we finished and climbed into bed. We fell asleep almost at once and didn't wake up until morning.

~.~

The next day, a Saturday, we went to the diner for breakfast. It was more crowded than I liked, but Brian stuck close to me and sat on the outside of the booth so that he could act as a shield between me and the rest of the diner. I appreciated him so much sometimes for just doing things like that.

"Hey, boys," said Emmett's cheerful voice. I looked up to see him and Ted making their way toward us. Emmett sat down next to Michael, who was sitting across from me. Ted, wincing and holding his back, squeezed in beside them. Though Michael still looked half asleep and Ted simply looked agonized, Emmett was bouncing around as though he'd already had three cups of coffee.

"Isn't it a fabulous day?" he asked of all of us.

"Beautiful," agreed Michael dully. "What's with you?"

"Lindsay called this morning— " began Ted.

"Shh, let me tell it," said Emmett. He turned to the rest of us. "Lindsay called the morning. She wants me to plan a party at the gallery!"

There was a collective outbreak of congratulations.

"It's wonderful, isn't it? Me, planning parties?" he sighed happily.

"Well, it was either that or become a hair dresser," said Brian. "We queers are talented in so few areas."

"I think it's great," said Ted, smiling.

"Aww, thanks, baby." And then Em and Ted were kissing and Brian was pretending to vomit all over the table.

"Hey, how's your back doing?" Michael asked Ted when he and Emmett finally broke apart.

"Hurts like hell," answered Ted promptly. "I spent the whole night in bed, and believe me, it was nowhere near as fun as it sounds."

"What happened to your back?" I asked.

"Theodore, a man your age just can't handle certain sex positions any more. You're not twenty anymore...or thirty, for that matter..."

Emmett patted Ted's arm sympathetically and gave Brian a reproachful look. "He threw it out at the gym. I told him not to push himself, but he had to go lifting the biggest barbells in the place—"

"Wait," I interrupted. "Wait, you were in bed all last night?"

"Yeah, and before any of you think to make any wise remarks, there was nothing remotely sexual about lying there in a haze of pain and drugs and—"

"I thought you beat Ted at pool last night?" I said, cutting across him and looking at Brian.

Emmett looked at Ted, obviously confused. I was frowning at Brian, but he was avoiding my eyes.

"You told me you were at Woody's last night, and that you beat Ted at pool," I said slowly.

Ted and Emmett exchanged looks. "I can tell you, sweetie, Teddy didn't make it out of bed all night," said Emmett.

"Were you there?" I asked him, then turned to Michael. "Or you?"

Their hesitant expressions were answer enough.

"Okay, so you weren't at Woody's with the guys." They were all staring at us now, Michael and Emmett and Ted, but I didn't care. I was irritated and angry about being lied to. Again, because I knew this couldn't be the first time. He "forgot" things at the office just a little too often, or went out and came home without any trace of alcohol or anything on his breath. What was he doing, if he wasn't at work or out with our friends? "Where were you? What were you doing?"

Brian didn't say a word, but began shredding bits of napkin, clearly at a loss.

Okay, so Brian had lied to me. Brian, Mr. No Apologies, No Regrets was hiding something. And here was irrefutable proof, for once. A sick sort of anger pounded through me on top of the embarrassment I already felt as the eyes of everyone at the table except Brian turned to me.

I began pushing at him, trying to get out of the booth. Suddenly the last thing I wanted was to be there with them all, especially him. "Let me out. Now."

He did as I asked, and when he started to follow me, I snapped at him to leave me alone. I didn't know what I was going to do or where I was going to go, because already I could feel the edge of panic creeping in, but I pushed open the diner door and strode out into the street.

I knew without looking back that he was following me, but I sped up and had gotten a street away when he caught up and grabbed my arm.

"Leave me alone," I barked at him, yanking out of his grip. I started to cross the street again, but then a throng of people passed and I hung back. Fuck.

"Come back to the fucking car before you have a panic attack, Justin."

"Why? What are you going to tell me this time?" I demanded. "Why the fuck are you lying to me, anyway? What could you possibly have to hide? It's not like you're cheating on me if you fuck someone else."

The idea of Brian lying to my face was disconcerting, to say the least. Brian didn't even do the type of lying most people did to spare the feelings of others. He was honest to a fault, and that was something I appreciated and respected in him. Or at least, I used to.

"Will you quit being a fucking drama princess?" he said, a hint of impatience in his voice, which only irritated me further. "Come on. Let's go back to the car and I'll explain."

I eyed him dubiously for a moment, then grudgingly agreed to follow him back to the car. I refused to reach for his hand on the way back, even though I could feel a certain tightness in my chest that made me want to seek comfort.

We reached the car and got inside, but he didn't immediately start it.

"Look..." he began, but didn't continue.

"Tell me what the fuck's going on," I said quietly. "Tell me now._ Is_ it some other guy? What have you been doing when you go off at night?"

He looked around the parking lot. "Let's go home. I don't want to get into it all here— there's a lot I have to explain."

I snorted. "Fine. Drive, then."

He looked like he wanted to protest my order, but thought better of it and turned the key in the ignition.

We didn't speak the whole way home. He kept looking over at me, as though he wanted to say something, but didn't. I sat with my arms crossed all the way back to the loft, then got out as soon as he'd parked and headed for the building, leaving him behind.

As soon as the loft door shut behind us, I turned on him.

"So? Tell me."

He sighed and tossed his keys on the counter. "First of all, there was a good reason why I didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?"

He looked as though he was choosing his words very carefully. "I've been...working on some things."

"'Working on some things?'" I repeated. "What, like in therapy or something?" I mean, god knew he had enough issues to work on.

"No. I don't actually have a therapist."

I raised my eyebrows. My anger, which had abated slightly since I'd stormed out of the diner, now returned with a vengeance. "So what, you fucking lied to me about that, too? What the hell, Brian?"

"I had a good reason..."

"Then fucking TELL ME IT!" I yelled as something snapped inside me. "I fucking had to tell you EVERYTHING. You know fucking EVERYTHING I've been thinking and feeling and fucking dreaming about for months! And you don't tell me SHIT."

He was looking sort of angry himself now. I felt a vindictive sense of satisfaction at this thought. Good. Let him get angry. Let him get angry and hurt, too.

"I didn't tell you shit BECAUSE I know every fucking thing you think!" he countered, stepping toward me. "I've had to listen to fucking HOURS of you crying and telling me and Kathy how they made you want to DIE and how they all just fucking got away with everything. What the fuck was I supposed to do, turn a deaf ear?"

"What does that have to do with—"

"You tried to kill yourself!" he hissed. "You tried to jump off a goddamn roof, remember? The night after I told you Sapperstein was walking free. And the first time the idea occurred to me to do something about it, it was the morning after your fucking suicide mission. All I could think about in the beginning...hours of digging and networking, trying to find even the smallest bit of incriminating evidence...was you, on that goddamn roof, getting ready to jump because your attacker got off!"

I blinked, opening my mouth to respond, then closing it again when nothing came out. I felt something like shame bubbling in my stomach at the reminder of how much damage that night on the roof had done, but there was something else I was focusing on.

"What do you mean, 'do something about it?'" I repeated. "Do what?"

He turned away from me, resting his forearms on the counter. "I wanted to make him feel that." His voice was soft and deadly, hatred in his tone such as that I'd only ever heard when he spoke of_ him._ "I wanted to make him feel what you were feeling that night. And I wanted to make sure that you never fucking felt like that again, that the bastard never got the chance to hurt anymore than he already has."

"Brian..."

"I wanted to hurt him. Unfortunately, killing wasn't the most practical solution." A small, dark smile tugged at his lips. He kept his eyes on the counter.

Now I was sort of scared as well as angry. "What are you talking...what did you do?" I asked, moving a little closer automatically.

Finally, fucking finally, he looked at me. "I want his life. I want him— to want to die, the way he made you want to die."

His words were nothing more than whisper, but they sent chills up my spine as if they were nails on a chalkboard.

"Brian...tell me..." I said, my voice sounding oddly hollow even to my own ears. "Tell me what you did."

He sat down at the counter, fidgeting almost absentmindedly with one of the little jars on top of it. "Well, I'm sure it's not necessary for me to point out that Gary Sapperstein isn't exactly a model citizen?"

I shook my head, my heart jumping into my throat at the mention of him.

"I've been...talking to some people."

I took a seat beside him, never taking my eyes off him, even though he once again seemed overcome by the inability to look at me. "What kind of people?"

Brian shrugged. "Guys I know. Guys they know. Carl Horvath," he added.

"About...for what? How are you..._what?"_ I asked, wishing I had enough information to be angry again instead of simply wondering what the hell was going on and what the fuck he'd done.

He sighed, a deep, weary sigh. "People who could help me figure things out. People who know Sapperstein, or worked for him, or dealt drugs to him. It's been hard...the fucker knows how to cover his ass. Friends help him out. He's got cop friends and lawyer friends and asshole friends from every walk of life. But it's hard to cover up all he does. I mean, they could basically choose any random law and chances are he's broken it at some point. But there were a few people who were able and willing to help."

"Help do what?" I was tired of this, being kept in the dark, guessing with these clues as they were revealed to me little by little. But as much as I wanted to hold onto it, my anger was abating, rapidly being replaced with a kind of apprehensive curiosity.

He hesitated. "Help me find someone willing to talk. Help me expose him for what he is," he said darkly. "A fucking drug addict, for one. They'd find more shit in his goddamn car than in a meth lab. And, uh—a sex offender. I mean, he's never been convicted for anything, but..."

His eyes were distant, his expression one of revulsion as I waited for him to answer my unspoken question.

He cleared his throat. "You name it, he's done it. It turns out he was involved with some underage hustlers. Not exactly a far a leap from a scumbag rapist, but still. Plus, I had a contact who put me in touch with someone who used to dance at Babylon years ago, when he was about your age. He quit after a couple of months, after things got out of control after work one night. Turns out he caught the eye of one of Sapperstein's friends, so they slipped something in his drink after his shift one night, and..."

I felt a lump rise in my throat and blinked rapidly, staring at the counter, grateful that he hadn't finished his sentence. How many fucking guys had that asshole done this to?

"Anyway, he gave me the names of some of the other boys he used to work with. And I got in touch with a guy who works at Babylon now, paid him off, and got access to the employee records."

"Employee records?" I asked, frowning. "What for?"

"I've been tracking down the ones who only lasted a few months. Calling and emailing...meeting with the ones still in Pittsburgh. You and the other dancer are far from the only ones who have a story to tell about the fucker. He had routine," he said somberly. "He'd hire hot young guys and exchange sexual favors for promotions, pay raises, shit like that. Some quit before that, but the ones who went along with it usually had a limit to how much they were willing to put up with. If the Sap knew he wouldn't be able to get what he wanted from them voluntarily, he had friends good for that, too. They'd supply him with the drugs he needed, and in return the asshole dealers were allowed to rape the guy he'd drugged."

At his words, a dark memory tugged at my mind. "Payment," I whispered, suddenly feeling nauseous. "That's...one of them said it, right before he...he raped me. He told Gary he wanted to collect his payment."

A shadow seemed to come over Brian's face. So that was what that had been. My body had been the sick fucker's reward for supplying the Sap with the drugs he'd given me— probably the ones he'd put in my drink that had made my head spin.

"How many?" I asked quietly, as if hoping he wouldn't hear me. I wasn't so sure I wanted to know the answer. But then I had to, didn't I? I had to know how many others had ended up just like me. "How...how long?"

He looked at me as though he knew exactly what I was thinking. "Four that say they know exactly what happened, like you. He invited them to parties and drugged them so he and his friends could take advantage. A few more swear something happened to them, but don't have a clear memory. And a few more told me nothing happened, but I'm pretty sure were lying."

"So..."

"So, about a dozen over the last eight or nine years."

I shook my head. There was suddenly so much to take in. Gary Sapperstein had been raping men for nine years. There were at least twelve others who had suffered at his hands the same way I had. He ran it like a business..._used _his business to lure in victims desperate for a job, used them for as long as they were willing, then took what he wanted when they were no longer willing to give it.

"And no one ever came forward?"

"Well, that was something else the Sap thought of. He made sure he never attacked two current employees, so they never had a chance to know each other or talk. He always made sure the guys he hurt were long gone before he did it to someone else. That way, they'd all think they were alone. But there were two who filed police reports. One was the dancer from a few months ago, the one we heard about— his name's Shawn. He didn't want to talk about it much, but he told me the Sap had come by to have a conversation with him after he found out he'd gone to the police. Whatever he said, it made him change his mind. He started retracting his story and telling everyone he'd made it up."

"What about the other one?"

"He said he couldn't remember exactly what happened, and didn't go to the hospital, so there was no evidence. He just dropped the charges and tried to move on."

"Can't blame him," I said, completely understanding the other two guys' reluctance to come forward. "Brian...he's hurt so many people. And he just keeps getting away with it."

But far from looking horrified and dejected, the way I certainly felt, Brian was looking strangely triumphant.

"Well, that's not exactly true."

"What do you mean?" I asked, wondering how he could possibly expect to make me feel better about any of this.

"I mean, it's taken me forever, but...I've been working a few leads."

I stared at him. "Why do you sound like a cop?"

"Because I've been doing a shitload of detective work. I've hunted down practically every person the Sap's ever known. Employees, friends, dealers...you name it."

"And— why?"

His voice was carefully controlled when he spoke, as if it was all he could do to keep it from shaking. "Because practically all the people he's been involved with know something about him that could incriminate him. First of all, there's his other victims. Like I said, at least four of them I've talked to know exactly what happened to them, including an old bartender, Matt. I've been talking to him for a while now, and I think I've pretty much got him convinced. He's going to file a police report and drag the Sap to court. He says it'll feel fucking good to get back at him, even if it's just to scare him and he doesn't get convicted. There's also a guy I just recently got a hold of— Joe— he used to be a fuck buddy of Sapperstein's, basically, but broke it off when things started getting out of hand."

"What do you mean? Did he...?"

"He didn't hurt Joe, no. But Joe used to be right in Gary's inner circle— one of the assholes who got invited to his parties. He was there the night Matt was raped, among other nights. He says he always felt bad for not doing anything to help the boys, but didn't step in or turn Gary in out of loyalty and the fear of getting implicated himself," said Brian, his mouth twisted in distaste. "I have a feeling Sapperstein could also tell some stories about Joe, too, which probably didn't make him any more eager to tell anyone what he'd done. But anyway, I told Joe some of the things I've found out, about the dozen or so other guys the Sap's hurt, and he's agreed to come forward as a witness to Matt's rape if it gets taken to court."

I gaped at him. "So...he'll be arrested? He'll go to court and have a trial and everything?"

"He'll go to court, but the rate of conviction for rape isn't high. We're hoping that with Matt's physical evidence and Joe's story, it'll be enough. Matt did go to the hospital afterward, so they've definitely got DNA to link him to Sapperstein. But you can bet Sap will have a lawyer arguing that Matt wanted it and Joe's lying or some shit," said Brian bitterly. "I wouldn't be surprised if he tries to discredit Joe and say he was in on it too."

My mind was racing. I tried to collect it enough to form a cohesive thought, but before I could, Brian was continuing.

"There was also another guy I talked to who was invited to those parties pretty regularly. Apparently he and the Sap had a mutual scumbag friend who used to attend them too, and he says the guy's got damn well near irrefutable evidence. Videos," he said when I looked at him questioningly.

I felt my stomach lurch again. "He's got...of guys being...?"

He nodded, looking quite as sick as I felt. "Two or three, at least. Different parties. Apparently he just couldn't resist making a few home movies. And the guy I talked to, Gary's old friend, he says the tapes are most likely still around somewhere. We're having some trouble finding him, but once we do Carl's going to get a warrant and see if we can find those videos. If we do, we've got a much better chance of convicting him. He could always make his arguments, but there'll be a hell of a lot of evidence against him, then. And not just against Sapperstein— it's even better, because if there's a video we might be able to get even more of the fuckers that were involved. So, that's the big thing we're trying to get him on. There are also possession charges— we'll definitely get him on drug possession. We think the reason the Sap's been getting away with that for so long is because of one friend in particular who's been covering his ass for him, so if we get _him_ for possession, too, it'll hopefully destroy his prestigious career and ruin any chance he has of helping the Sap in the process."

I shook my head as wave upon wave of new information washed over me, then began to sink in. "So you think...he might pay? He might really pay? Is that what you're saying?"

He pressed his lips together, an odd look in his eyes that was some peculiar mixture of sadness and joy. "I'm saying it's very possible that at some point, he'll end up in fucking prison where he belongs. It's not set in stone until it's done, but with a victim testifying and with the drugs and possibly the tapes...it's possible, even likely."

I wiped at my eyes, which were suddenly burning and rather watery. "And do you know if...when these videos were made?"

He cleared his throat, as if he too were losing his grip on his emotions. "I don't know if they've got one of you, if that's what you're asking."

His voice was gentle, but I felt as though I'd been kicked in the stomach at the same time as my heart leaped— something bad and good at the same time. What if there _was _a video of me? What if I suddenly had a flawless, complete recollection of that horrible night back in my life?

What if I could use it against him?

"And um..." I sniffed, trying to force my mind off the thought of a video that might not even exist. "Why didn't you tell me any of this? You've been lying to me...for so long...why didn't you tell me?"

He was quiet for a moment. When he answered, he didn't look at me, but stared at the counter again as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "If there was a chance it didn't work out and my leads didn't go anywhere... I didn't want to let you down. Not again, after what happened the last time."

"You've never let me down," I said softly. "Pissed me off sometimes, maybe, but you've never let me down. It was shitty of you to fucking lie to me."

"I know." He looked ashamed. It was such an odd look on Brian, and I felt what little composure I'd held onto up til now starting to crack.

It was true; it was fucking shitty of him to lie. But on the other hand— I supposed I could understand. It wasn't like I hadn't done the exact same thing at one point. I'd kept my fair share of secrets, lied to him the same way he'd lied to me, and about something just as big. He wasn't the only one of us to lie because of his fears.

"I love that you try to protect me," I said, reaching over to touch his arm. He jumped as if startled and looked at me, and if I wasn't mistaken there was a certain apprehension in his eyes. "But don't fucking lie to me anymore, Brian. You have to trust that I can handle things. I'm here, aren't I?"

My hand slid up to his neck now, and though he opened his mouth to say something, I leaned in to kiss him, and he seemed to find that a better use for his mouth, anyway. I had to agree.

"Sorry," he whispered as we pulled away slightly. His words were so quiet I almost didn't catch them, but the corners of his mouth twitched, and I knew I hadn't imagined his apology.

"I thought sorry was bullshit?" I challenged. Our faces were still very close together, and now his arm came up to wrap around my back.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I used to think a lot of things were bullshit."

He rolled his lips into his mouth in that fucking adorable way of his, and as a fluent speaker of the Kinney language, I caught the double meaning. He used to think I was bullshit in a way, after all, and everything I was to him.

"It's not enough," he continued, and for a moment I didn't know what he was talking about. "Putting the Sap away— it's not enough. I know it doesn't erase what he did to you. But at least he'd be off the streets, and I figure since we can't kill him, prison is the next best thing. Maybe he'll even get a taste of his own fucking medicine in there."

"It is enough." No, it didn't erase what he'd done to me, Brian was right about that. But it was far, far more than I ever thought we'd have; I thought we'd never have real justice, and now Brian had gone and made sure we did. "This is amazing. I can't believe you did this. Digging up all the shit he's done..."

He was still looking a little uneasy, as if not completely sure if I'd forgiven him or not. But how the fuck was I supposed to be angry at him still? He had done this...this wonderful, amazing thing...for me. Sapperstein was going to pay. Because Brian was fucking going to make him pay. Even if it wasn't set in stone yet, I could feel it. Whatever Brian said, Sapperstein was at least going to have people standing up to him, and that was a victory in itself.

I cleared my throat. "I don't know what to say, besides...thank you."

"You don't have to—"

"Yes, I do," I said, seizing the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss before he could finish his bullshit sentence.

I didn't know how to ever thank him for this. I'd never been so grateful for anyone, never been more moved by anything. "Thank you— I love you. I love you so fucking much," I muttered, kissing him again and again, unable to get enough. "I can't believe you did this for me."

"Sapperstein did it all himself. I just helped drag it all up again."

But I ignored this bullshit, too, and pushed my tongue in his mouth. God, I would never be able to love him enough for this. Finally, I pulled away, resting my forehead against his.

I wanted to tell him so many things. In that moment, I wanted to just let the words flow, tell him that he was my own personal fucking hero and that I loved him so much, and that he was the most amazing person I'd ever known in my entire life, and that I owed him everything for this.

He was going to pay. God, he was going to _pay._ Gary Sapperstein's luck had finally run out. Or maybe Brian Kinney had simply stolen it from under his feet.

After one enthusiastic blow job from me and a heartily returned reciprocation from Brian, we finally got around to eating, both of our stomachs rumbling as a result of our missed breakfast.

I told him I loved him, and he smiled at me over our toast and said he loved me, too.

As if I didn't already know.

~.~

Two weeks after our talk, Brian came home from work with a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Was he hot?" I asked, smiling at his exuberance when he gave me a very enthusiastic kiss that left me feeling a little dazed.

"Who?"

"The guy you fucked," I said, glancing over my shoulder at him as I dug a Thai menu out of a kitchen drawer. "Isn't that why you're looking so happy?"

He laughed. "Not this time, Sunshine. Guess what happened today?"

Well, if it didn't have to do with sex... "You landed a huge account?"

"No. Well, yes, but that's not what it is."

I waited for him to elaborate, then realized he was still expecting me to guess. "You, uh...bought a new suit?"

"Guess again."

"I don't know," I admitted. "No idea. Do you want Thai tonight? I'm starving."

"Thai's fine. But I've got something even better."

I raised an eyebrow. "What...Chinese?"

He just grinned at me. "Sapperstein and his asshole friend got arrested today. Drug possession."

I stared at him, completely forgetting about dinner. "Are you serious?" My heart slammed madly against my ribcage. A grin slowly broke out across my face; I hardly dared to believe it.

"Yeah. He's in deep shit trouble," said Brian with deep-seated satisfaction. "Carl says he had enough crystal on him to get him put away for a couple of years even, especially if it turns out he was planning on dealing it."

I gave a stupid, excited little jump and threw my arms around Brian. He returned my embrace, and I grinned and laughed against his lips when he kissed me.

**~. Brian .~**

We just stood there in the kitchen for several minutes, giddiness giving way to fervor as our kisses deepened. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Sapperstein was going to suffer, was going to pay. Justin wasn't pissed at me, though he had every right to be, but was standing here with his arms around me, so grateful to me for seeking justice on his behalf.

"Brian?" he said softly, sounding apprehensive as he pulled away. "What about those other leads?

His jubilant smile had faded, and he looked almost timid.

"Joe still says he'll testify against him, and Matt says he'll file the police report as soon as he talks to his partner about what happened to him."

"And...the other thing?"

"We haven't found the video guy yet."

I thought I knew what was responsible for the anxious look on his face, but I didn't ask if it was because he wanted there to be a video of him or if it was because he was scared that there was.

Personally, I wasn't sure if I wanted there to be a video of him or not— on one hand, the evidence could help not only in getting Sapperstein convicted, but getting him convicted for the crime that had sparked my intense desire to punish him in the first place. On the other hand, I didn't know if either of us could stand to see it. It would kill him, and I was pretty sure that if I had to view such a thing at any point, my commendable efforts to restrain my murderous urges where the Sap was concerned would cease to be enough.

"I've been thinking," he said, speaking slowly as if he was choosing every word with deliberate care, "that maybe I should press charges, too."

"Press charges?" I repeated. "Are you...?"

"I'm not sure, no," he answered my unfinished question. "But I'm thinking about it. Maybe...I could do it. I don't know. I mean, there probably wouldn't be evidence unless there's a video."

"Even if there's nothing of you, there'll be a witness who's seen him rape at least one other guy, plus another victim who has concrete evidence that something happened and that Sap was involved, and then hopefully the tapes," I reminded him. "We're building a good case against him. What you have to say— that can only help."

Justin testifying, even if nothing came of it...that was such a fucking huge thing for him. Something a lot like pride burst open in my chest and pulled a small smile onto my lips.

"We can talk to Melanie later, if you want. See if she can help us, if you decide to do it."

He nodded, looking a bit preoccupied, and I suddenly knew this had been on his mind ever since I'd told him what was going on. Of course it had.

"I could stand up to him. I never did that with Chris Hobbes," he said quietly, letting out a breath. "I just don't want to be afraid of him anymore."

I threaded my fingers through his hair. Fuck, he was so goddamn brave. And I knew, beyond a doubt, that if he faced the Sap, Justin would come out triumphant.

And I would be there with him while he did it, every step of the way.

~.~

We had a pleasant Thai dinner that night, during which we talked about anything and everything, including and moving beyond the shit with Sapperstein. We sat on the floor in the living room and drank wine until we were both tipsy. He was getting giggly, laughing at stupid things I said, which made me want to say them all the more. His laugh was a fucking turn on.

Finally, this resulted in me just leaning right across to his side of the floor cushion and kissing him hard on the mouth. He started to giggle, but this really wasn't a giggling sort of moment, and he quickly shut up when I slid my tongue in his mouth.

He seemed to sober up a little as he kissed me back, so that our playful kisses quickly became impassioned and intense. I moved aside his wine glass just in time as we fell onto the cushions, very nearly knocking both red-wine-filled glasses over onto the white material.

His hands moved deftly beneath my shirt, over my chest, tugging at the fabric. I took a moment to appreciate how fucking far he'd come. There was nobody between us, nobody holding me back from kissing him and touching him and pulling off his clothes. The scumbags who'd hurt him— they weren't even in his head right now, I could tell. It was just the two of us.

The air was cool against my naked skin, but his body was hot in more ways than one. Dying spring light filtered in from the window, playing across his skin and giving it a beautiful golden hue. His legs came up to wrap around my waist, holding me securely, right where he wanted me. Right where I wanted to be.

"I love that you'd do anything for me," he said in my ear, his fingers twisting in the hair at the nape of my neck.

The words seemed to echo inside my head, because I'd heard them once before in my jeep, right before our lives had blown up in our faces. This time, though, I wasn't going to pretend what I'd done wasn't really for him. It always had been, and we both knew it.

So I met his eyes, so loving and trusting and fuck, I'd never had anyone look at me quite the way he did. And I whispered back, "Any time," and he smiled that fucking amazing smile of his and kissed me again.

I wanted to draw this out as long as possible, but it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the stiffness between both of our legs. So I reached down at last and took him in my hand, giving him a few slow, leisurely strokes.

His breath caught and his head fell back, his eyes closed. He was the hottest sight I'd ever seen, but right when I decided to take him in my mouth, his eyes popped open.

"Brian...wait a second..."

I stopped at once, letting go of him and starting to sit up.

"No, don't go," he said, pulling me back down on top of him. "Sorry, I'm okay...I didn't mean that..."

I brushed his hair back from his forehead, marveling at how soft the strands of blond were between my fingers. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he assured me, shaking his head. "Nothing, I promise."

But as I watched, a look of apprehension came over his face. He looked as though he was having a fierce debate with himself about something, and then he reached around under the cushion. For a second, I wondered what the hell he was doing, but then he pulled out a small square package that I recognized at once. I blinked; I'd forgotten I'd had one of those under there.

He held it up between two fingers, an anxious smile on his face. "You want me safe, right? And around for a long time?"

I huffed a laugh, and so did he, which helped to diffuse the tension somewhat.

"Twat," I muttered. "Do you always remember everything I say?"

"Just the important stuff."

We both smiled, but nerves took over quickly as he ripped open the package. At least his hands weren't trembling this time. We hadn't tried to do anything requiring a condom since that first failed attempt a few weeks ago. He'd been able to let me use my fingers on him once more since then, but that was it.

"Are you sure?" I asked as he removed the little latex ring from its wrapper. "Maybe...why don't you wear it?"

A small grin flashed across his face at my suggestion, but he shook his head. "No. I want you inside me— at least the first time."

So I sat up a little and let him roll the condom onto my dick. His hands were now starting to shake, but I didn't say anything.

He had one of our lube packets in his hand now, too, but before he could open it, I took it from him and just kissed him, long and deep. The last thing we needed was to rush this, especially if he was already so nervous he was trembling.

His hands stilled after a while, though, and came up to curl in my hair and touch my ear and my face. Sometimes it still amazed me that he could trust me the way he did. Of course I would never hurt him, never give him a reason to be afraid of me, but after what he'd gone through, it was a miracle that he still wanted to be with me or any guy at all.

He broke our kiss, and at my questioning look, let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I'm okay. Just really nervous."

I opened my mouth to ask him if he wanted to stop, then thought better of it. He knew what he could handle and what he couldn't— I had to trust him. "Don't be. It's me— we've done this hundreds of times before."

He nodded and let out a deep breath. "Just...take it easy, okay?"

I was torn between rolling my eyes in amusement and making a rather lesbianic comment myself. I settled for a combination of the two.

"Like the first time?" I asked, rolling my eyes and grinning weakly at him.

He nodded. "Like both of them."

I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but then he was kissing me again, and all I wanted to do then was get lost with him. In him. Because every fucking thing had changed since the first time, and there was no going back, ever. Not after this. Not after everything.

Because now I fucking loved him.

**~. Justin .~**

I asked him to take it easy, like our first times— the first time we'd fucked, and the first time we'd made love, in this loft, after the bashing.

And here was a third 'first time' of ours— our first after the party, after he'd said he loved me, after nearly what, nine fucking months? Fuck, had it really been that long? Sometimes it seemed like forever, and sometimes it all could feel so fresh still.

I winced when he slid his finger inside me, partly because it was uncomfortable and partly because the lube was cold. He kept kissing me, though, which was nice, so I tried to concentrate on that and relax while he opened me up.

It hurt when he pushed the second one in, but when the third one went in beside it I started to get that just-out-of-reach tingle of pleasure. I moaned and jerked against his hand involuntarily when he hit that oh-so-sweet spot inside.

"Mmm...you okay?"

"Fine. That feels good."

He continued to work his fingers in and out of my hole, establishing a steady rhythm. It really was starting to feel good, pleasure slowly replacing my discomfort, and when he brushed against my prostate again I let out a string of mingled expletives and encouragement.

I kept my eyes on him through all of this, taking in every detail of every feature I loved about him: the darker hue of his eyes when he was turned on, his slightly parted lips, his rapt expression as he watched me writhing in pleasure beneath him. He was fucking beautiful. How had I once described his face to Daphne? 'The face of God?' I tried not to laugh, because this really wasn't a laughing moment, but I did smile a bit at the memory.

"You look hot like this." His voice interrupted my thoughts, and I realized now he was jerking himself off with the hand that wasn't partially up my ass.

I looked at him, and he held my gaze, and I knew, whether it worked or not...

We had to try.

I was so fucking ready to try.

"Do it," I said suddenly. "Brian, please...I want you."

He looked at me so intensely right then that it made me squirm. It was like he was trying to see inside me.

"Are you—"

"Yes." I nodded fervently, wanting there to be no question in his mind, either. "Fuck,_ yes."_

This last whispered word seemed to convince him. Slowly, he pulled his fingers from my body, now slick with lube, and grabbed the base of his dick instead. I took a deep breath and let it out again as he moved over me, guiding his dick to my hole.

I wanted to say that I loved him, but then the head of his sheathed dick was pushing inside and the words caught in my throat. I was nervous, but I wasn't scared. He loved me and I fucking loved him more than anything in the world, and it was the furthest thing from that night, and right now that whole nightmare was last thing I wanted to think about.

Because I had him. I had Brian, who loved me and would do anything for me, who had done so much just to get me through.

There was a sharp sort of burn as he pushed inside; it had been a fucking long while, after all. But fucking _finally, _he was inside me again, really inside me. I gave a little cry that was partially of pain and partially of pleasure and leaned back against the cushion. He kissed my exposed neck and jaw and inched a little further inside when I leaned up to kiss him back.

He paused when he'd pushed all the way in, looking down at me, asking the silent question. I kissed him in a wordless answer, and he began to pull out again, only to thrust achingly slowly back inside me.

He soon fell into a sweet, slow rhythm. He never took his eyes off me except to close them when we kissed. I wrapped my legs tight around him and pulled him deeper in me with every thrust.

It felt even better than I remembered. We rocked together, our bodies in sync with each other. He moved faster when I squeezed his hips with my legs and seemed to know right when to slow down. I'd wondered for so long if it would be different or awkward. It_ was _different. It wasn't awkward in the least, but it was different for sure. It was careful and almost tentative, and I knew it would be a while before either of us felt truly, completely comfortable in this again without _it _being in our minds in any way. But I also felt more connected to him than ever, and I knew there was no cause for worry just because it wasn't the same as it was. We'd made it this far; we could do anything. We'd get there eventually.

I wasn't sure how long it lasted, but by the time we'd both found our release, I was thoroughly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. He collapsed on top of me after coming, and I held him there for a long time. Eventually, though, it became too much to just have his whole weight on me, so I tapped him gently and he took that as the cue it was. He sat up just long enough to tie off the condom and toss it aside and then he was back with me, his hands roaming over my skin like he couldn't get enough, his soothing words washing over me.

"Are you okay?"

I nodded, tucking my head against his shoulder and trying to sort of collect my bearings. "Yeah. Just overwhelmed. But in a good way. That was so great...I've missed you..."

He kissed the side of my head and just let me hold onto him— cling to him, really. I wasn't anywhere near ready to get up and move from this spot, especially if it meant letting go for even a second. He seemed okay with that: he was clinging right back.

I wasn't sure when we were going to be able to do it all again, but that was okay. Brian would understand, and besides— that one time had been more than I'd dared to hope for at one point. And it had been better than I could have asked for. I could still feel him inside me, and hoped that feeling wouldn't fade before we did it again.

The cushions were soft and comfortable below us, the faint light from the window just enough to outline our abandoned wine glasses and food a few feet away. I took refuge against his body as he did the same against mine, wrapping himself around me.

He fell asleep first, his head burrowed into my neck. I stayed awake for a while longer, watching the rest of the evening light give way to night, a peaceful sort of darkness enveloping us inside the loft, here on our cushion, naked and entwined together. Unable to keep my thoughts from drifting, I thought about Sapperstein and where he was now. I wondered if he'd ever know that it was Brian who had orchestrated the shit storm he would soon be in the dead center of. He couldn't have imagined, that night he'd done that to me, that it would someday turn out to be one of the biggest mistakes he'd ever made. I wondered if he would, someday in the distant future, come to regret all the horrible things he'd done. Probably not, at least not for the right reasons, and though I wished I could make him sorry, Brian had ensured that he'd feel the pain he'd caused so many people. That was more than enough.

I ran my fingers through Brian's hair, which tickled my chin and neck. His breath came in soft puffs against my collar bone. I smoothed his hair back and kissed the top of his head, loving him so much in that moment that I thought my chest might burst.

Later tomorrow, when we woke up, we'd take a shower to get my come off of us, and probably we would exchange blow jobs. We'd go to the diner for breakfast like we did most weekends, and maybe we'd walk a little and shop together.

He'd want to look at clothes, and I'd tease him but would accompany him inside the high-end shop. Or maybe I'd go ahead to my favorite little art store by myself, because I could, and he'd find me later and I'd explain to him in detail all the naked portraits of him I would do with new pencils or new paints. We would barely make it home before we were all over each other, and maybe— just maybe— I could have him inside me again.

There were some things that divided your life into a before and after, I decided. Some turning points that, once you reached them, you could never go back. Good things, like falling in love. And bad things, too, like getting bashed or being raped. Some things just changed you forever; you could never feel the same because you weren't the same anymore.

Things happened. Life changed. Sometimes permanently.

And maybe that was okay. Maybe that was how it was supposed to be.

Brian shifted against me and I kissed his hair one more time before closing my eyes, still holding him tightly. I felt exhausted and more fucking awake and alive than I ever had in my life, my head spinning with a thousand thoughts and emotions. He was snoring a little, I was uncomfortably sticky from own come, and I knew we'd both wake up tomorrow with stiff limbs. My ass was sore, like the way it had been after my first time with him.

And it was all fucking perfect.


	36. Epilogue

A/N: Thanks so, so much for everyone who stuck with me and the boys through this until the end! I know I've been absolutely horrible at updating, but this is it, the final chapter of their story. I hope it ties up everything nicely and gives everyone the closure I tried to give Brian and Justin.

Thanks so much for reading, everyone!

**Two Years Later**

**~. Justin .~**

The image of JT being held in Rage's arms, both of them suspended slightly off the ground by Rage's powers of flight, was hardly a new one. It had been our trademark of sorts— it was the promotional image we used more than any other for anything Rage-related. Not only was it the main component of the cover for our very first issue, but it also made all the fags that read our comic swoon.

But I wasn't really looking at Rage and JT. I was looking past them, in the background. Zephyr (who was based on Michael and who we had a last decided on a good name for, despite Brian's insistence that 'super geek' was the most fitting) was on their left, looking tough and intimidating. To the right side of the page, the Life-Sapper— the very first villain and I Michael had ever created—glared at me.

About a year and a half ago, I'd finally given in to Michael's insistence that I do something with all my work. So we'd sat down together and gone through my multiple sketchbooks of drawings of my superhero characters. We'd kept some of the porn, but weeded out most of it, and moved our focus to what would make the best stories, because Michael said no one would buy a comic that only featured sex, even though Brian pointed out that the porn industry made billions every year.

Michael had done most of the dialogue, and together we'd shaped the stories into something befitting a comic book. I had to admit, it was really something amazing to see our work on the shelves of his store.

In our comic, the hot and powerful Rage (based on Brian, of course) and his best friend and sidekick, Zephyr, save JT (me) from several attackers just in the nick of time. This had been the hardest part for me to get over— publishing a comic that included an attempted rape in the beginning, but Michael had convinced me to do it in the end. In the comic, the main villain, the Life-Sapper, carries a baseball bat for a weapon and is the ringleader behind the attack on JT. Rage and Zephyr temporarily defeat the Life-Sapper, and Rage flies an unconscious JT back to his lair for the night.

But, when JT wakes, it is discovered that he has amnesia and can remember only the attack— not the rescue. So Rage explains that he and Zephyr saved him from the evil Life-Sapper, only he leaves out the part about his secret identity as a superhero.

JT, not remembering who he is or where he lives, stays with Rage while he slowly heals and regains his memory. While all this is happening, Rage and JT fall in love, though Rage is constantly growing more fearful that JT will remember the heroic rescue and discover his true identity.

In the end, Rage and Zephyr destroy the Life-Sapper and his cronies, with JT witnessing the entire scene without their knowledge. That is, until it comes time to destroy the bat, which not only has the power to cause temporary amnesia but is immune to super-powered destruction. With Rage and Zephyr at a loss as to how to destroy it, JT steps in and simply breaks it in half, rendering it useless and effectively bringing the Life-Sapper's reign of pain to a definitive end.

With JT now in on the secret of his superpowers, the last barrier between Rage and JT is broken down. Since he no longer has anything to hide, Rage uses his powers of levitation to have hot sex with JT in midair. (Brian happened to agree with me that this was the best part in the whole thing, though Michael was insisting before the issue was even published that I draw Zephyr a hunky, levitating boyfriend of his own.)

I couldn't ever remember feeling more proud of myself than the day our first issue had hit the shelves. If I ever started feeling broken down at all, I'd start looking through all our old comics and would feel better. Even though it was Brian and Michael's characters who had fought the Life-Sapper, I had fought Sapperstein, in a way; I'd triumphed over him, at least in fictional form. Though of course I possessed no superpowers in real life, it made me feel powerful in an entirely different way. Capable. Strong.

We were making pretty decent money off of it, too. I'd gone to work at the diner for a few months not long after the first issue was published, but after six months of selling comics I was making more money than I ever had in my life, so I'd quit at the diner so I could focus more on school.

"You're thinking again, aren't you?" came Brian's voice from behind me.

I smiled to myself and set the comic down on the counter. Before I could turn around, his arms encircled me from behind. I felt his chin on my shoulder, and knew he, too, was looking at the comic.

"Just a little. And don't say 'always a dangerous sign,'" I warned him.

"Wasn't going to."

I almost snorted. He was so predictable. Or maybe I just knew him that fucking well by this point.

"Haven't seen that one in a while." I could hear the worry in his tone, buried and disguised but still very much present.

I shook my head. He didn't need to worry. Not now. "I just needed to see it today."

He held me for a moment more, then kissed my cheek, and I knew he understood. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah. Just let me get my shoes."

I slid off my chair and left the comic on the kitchen counter. He slung an arm around my shoulders as we walked out the door.

Though Debbie had (in an uncharacteristically meek voice) assured me that I didn't have to come today if I didn't feel like it, she'd also said that if I did decide to come, she'd fix my favorite dessert for me. In the end, I'd decided to let her and everyone else offer their support. It wasn't like I could avoid them for long, and besides, I doubted shutting myself away from everyone would do me any good. I'd had enough of that for a lifetime.

So that night, mere hours after Gary Sapperstein's trial, I accompanied Brian to Debbie's house for dinner. As promised, she had my favorite dessert. I appreciated this simple gesture more than I could ever tell her.

Inevitably, the dinner conversation soon turned to the trial that had taken place that day. Most of them had been there anyway, but that didn't stop them recounting almost every minute of it.

"That asshole's smug face when they said he was guilty!" Debbie said gleefully.

"He wasn't expecting it, that's for sure," said Emmett with obvious relish.

"His lawyer probably told him not to worry about anything," said Melanie.

"Well, he didn't have you as his lawyer, Mel," I said, holding my drink up. Across the table, she clinked her glass against mine, then took a sip of her wine. She'd taken on my case pro bono and everything; I couldn't have asked for a better lawyer. Though I'd initially been hesitant to have someone I knew so well take on the case, mostly because she'd had to prepare me for the types of personal questions I'd be asked in court, I'd gotten over my awkwardness and just came to appreciate the hell out of her for everything she'd done.

"I always said rape should be punishable by castration," said Lindsay, twirling noodles around her fork. "I got a petition going for it and everything back in college. I got half the women on campus to sign, and a few of the men, too."

"Is this a return of the scary, political, college-dyke Lindsay?" asked Brian in full snark-mode, grinning at her.

"Need I remind you that you were one of the men who signed that petition, asshole?"

"You did?" I asked him, smiling.

He nodded, his arm going automatically around my shoulders as he sipped his own wine. "Mm-hm. Shame that law didn't pass."

I kissed him and tasted wine on his tongue.

"Let's have a toast!" said Debbie, holding her drink in the air. "To that bastard getting what he deserves!"

On her left, Emmett did the same. "To standing up for yourself." He winked at me.

"To justice," said Michael as he and Ben raised their glasses, too.

Next to me, Brian put his glass up, as well. He didn't take his eyes off me, and there was no doubt in my mind exactly what he was toasting. Or rather, who.

The others raised their glasses as well then lowered them to drink their wine as I did the same. I felt a bit like I was in the middle of a den of wild animals; it was something to watch them all come together in support of one of their own and pounce on anyone who preyed on one of the pack.

The exuberance of the pack was so great that, by the time Debbie brought out dessert, I was feeling quite cheerful myself. I'd been in a funny mood most of the day, wavering somewhere between joy and regret.

I ate my dessert quite happily, though, chatting with Michael about the next issue of Rage. By the time we were done eating, we each had several napkins worth of scribbled notes and rough sketches.

I caught Brian's eye across the living room. He was on the couch now, talking with Debbie, but he jerked his head in the direction of the back door when he saw me looking at him. I nodded, shoved my notes in my pocket, and told Michael I'd be back in a few minutes.

By the time I got away, deposited my plate in the kitchen, and got outside, Brian was already there, a lit cigarette in his mouth. He turned when he heard my footsteps. Wordlessly, he wrapped his arm around me. We stood there in silence for a few moments during which I plucked the cigarette from his hand and took a drag off of it myself.

"I'm sorry he didn't get convicted on your charges."

I didn't answer at first. What was I supposed to say? He offered me his cigarette again, and I took it, grateful to have something else to do with my mouth.

"It just seems like a waste," I said, shaking my head. "Everything I did, everything I went through, taking him to court...answering all those fucking questions..."

**~. Brian .~**

His voice was a dispiriting mixture of bitterness and dejection. I knew he was disappointed. I knew he was struggling with certain regrets.

But I also knew that it had taken a fucking lot, facing Sapperstein in court, and I didn't want him feeling like it hadn't been worth it. He may have lost the court case, but he'd won something, too.

"It wasn't a waste," I said, taking a slow, thoughtful drag off the cigarette we were sharing. "You stood up to him. You took something back from him."

He nodded. I knew it had been rough on him, seeing Sapperstein face to face again. He'd been having nightmares for the last few weeks with increasing intensity. We'd stopped seeing his therapist, Kathy, about four months before all this, so we couldn't even get his old sleep medication prescribed again.

He appeared to consider my point. "You think I did?"

I nodded. "You went after him for what he did to you—that took fucking balls. Everyone knows what a piece of shit he is now."

He smiled softly and took the cigarette back.

That had been one of the toughest things for him besides facing that asshole—answering questions about exactly what had happened that night. He'd had to go over every detail, not only about the party, but about events both before and after it, including his prior sexual experience with Gary, his recreational drug use, his mental state after the bashing, his therapy, his medications. Just as Melanie had warned him when she'd taken on his case, they'd asked him everything, whether it was relevant or not.

In the end, though, there was no proof that Justin had ever been raped by Gary Sapperstein or his friends. Sapperstein maintained that he hadn't even had sex with him at the party, consensual or otherwise. And as there was no proof to the contrary, the verdict had been 'not guilty.'

"And keep in mind," I continued, "he was convicted on two other charges, not to mention those old drug charges of his. He'll still be spending a good chunk of time in prison as someone's bitch."

Justin let out a tiny little laugh at that, which relieved me. He'd done better than I could have hoped with all of this, but it had been tough on both of us. Even though we hadn't gotten exactly the outcome we'd hoped for, it was still a victory, and it was over now. It was finally over.

"You think?" he asked, looking slightly more cheerful at this.

"One can hope." He leaned against me, his arm going around my waist. I kissed the top of his head. "I'm, uh—"

He turned to look up at me curiously. He raised an eyebrow expectantly, and I knew I had to deliver.

"I'm proud of you."

He practically beamed and pulled me down for a kiss. After a few moments, he pulled away. "Thank you. For everything."

I shrugged uncomfortably. "I didn't do any—"

"Yes, you did," he cut me off, his harshness taking me by surprise. "You did so much. You got me through so much—and it was because of you we even got a trial like that . . . ."

Which wasn't true, at least not the part about me getting him through so much. He'd done all that himself. He'd gotten through it all because of his own strength and bravery and whatever the fuck else. He was the most resilient fucker I knew, and I told him so.

He shook his head. "You helped me more than you know, Brian."

And okay, I supposed sticking by him during the whole painful ordeal had helped him, but it still wasn't like I was the reason he'd made it. The trial, I suppose, was at least partially my doing, I'd give him that. All my work had finally paid off. Matt, Babylon's old bartender and another of Sapperstein's victims, had testified against his attacker today, with Gary's old friend, Joe, as a witness. He'd been convicted on that charge, as well as one other—that which had been found on an old video tape kept by one of Sapperstein's other sick friends.

I'd found out through Carl that there had been four tapes in all. One was unusable, the assault depicted having taken place a solid fourteen years previously—two years past the statute of limitations for rape charges. I'd also asked him (I'd had to know, had to, even if I didn't want to) if there had been one of Justin.

There hadn't been, and I wasn't sure if I was relieved about that or not. The most recent tape had been from a party three years or so before Justin's assault, featuring Gary and several of his scumbag friends at some other party; according to Carl, the victim looked to be around high school age.

The victims from the other two tapes had been contacted. One hadn't wanted anything to do with the courts or a trial or anything. The other—a guy by the name of Lyle, who was now twenty-six—had pressed charges along with Matt and Justin. Though Sapperstein's lawyer had tried to make it out that the entire ordeal had been a fantasy of Lyle's and the whole thing had been consensual, the jury had ruled against him and Gary had been convicted on a second charge.

"So, Michael said something about Woody's later, and then the club. You up for it?" I asked.

He nodded, leaning his head against my shoulder and looking up at the starry expanse of sky.

"Yeah. Definitely."

I was hoping a night of dancing might serve to get his mind off things. The new gay club that had opened in Babylon's stead—Yang—had quickly become the new hot spot. Rumor was they were opening a lesbian club, Yin, a couple of blocks away, something I'd been sure to mention to the munchers whenever I saw them, pretending to shudder at the thought.

Justin and I even fucked in Yang's backroom sometimes. He did fine with crowds these days, and though we'd had plenty of trials where sex was concerned, things were basically the way they'd been before the party. It had been an adjustment for him going to a club like Yang, full of hulking, horny men, but I'd stayed practically glued to his side for the first three months after we'd started going there, and he handled it just fine now. And except for his very occasional requests to stop in the middle of sex, he was doing fucking great with that, too. Our sex life was pretty much every bit as great as it always had been. Without the constant burden of pain that we used to share, weighted down by the attacks of first Hobbes and then Sapperstein, things between us were easy and comfortable and, dare I say it, happy these days.

After all we'd been through, I thought we'd earned it. Maybe we were still dealing with some things— maybe we always would be— but we were doing better than I could have imagined at one point. We'd gone through a lot to be here. We more than deserved it. We deserved some peace, and some fun, and some joy. All things, incidentally, that he brought to my life.

We deserved, I thought, to do exactly what we were doing now: moving forward together.

**~. Justin .~**

Whatever bullshit Brian came out with about having next to nothing to do with how much better I was doing these days, I knew different. I knew better than that.

Mostly because of all this trial business, I'd been thinking about things I hadn't thought about in a while, things like our first time having sex after the rape, old issues of Rage that had been about the assault, and just a shitload of other things. Some were dark and unpleasant, like most of my therapy sessions, and my suicide attempt, and being diagnosed with an STD; some, though, made me feel warm and hopeful, like all the firsts after the attack: drawing Brian naked, him telling me he loved me, Daphne taking me to the movies, jerking off a guy that wasn't my boyfriend.

Mostly, I thought about Brian, because how could I not? He'd been there through everything; there really wasn't any part of this that didn't have something to do with him or his unwavering support. Sometimes it felt like he'd saved me, every part of me—I didn't know where I'd be, or even _if _I would be anything, without him. Would I still be alive? Would I still be in school? Would I be able to be with my friends and family with such ease? Would I be thriving the way I was now?

I didn't know for sure what would have happened, but somehow I did know that I wouldn't be nearly as okay if it weren't for him. Maybe I would have survived on my own, like he said, but he had made things easier than they would have been, there was no way even he could deny that. He'd been there while I'd put all my broken pieces back where they belonged, and he'd helped me do it no matter how many times we both shattered. He'd helped me through each day until I was finally in a place to do it for myself, and because of that, I was here, and smiling, and happy. We were happy.

He offered me the final drag off his cigarette, then stomped it out on the ground. He didn't say a word and neither did I, but he pulled me a little closer and kissed me deeply in that way that made my toes curl.

Somehow, with him, the tough shit didn't seem to matter as much. What had happened back then, and whatever happened in the future—it wasn't nearly as important as what was happening now. And he was right about Sapperstein, too: I'd fucking stood up to him today. I'd faced him and told everyone exactly what he'd done to me, and maybe he hadn't been convicted, but he knew and I knew and everyone else knew what he'd done. This time, it was him who would be suffering, and it was me who just didn't give a shit. He was going to prison for a very long time, and I was free to live my life. I wasn't going to let him define it, either, not when I had so many other things to focus on—things like Rage, and school, and my friends, and art, and Brian. The other shit just wasn't worth it. Life went on. . . and so did we.

I kissed Brian one more time, muttering a quiet _I love you _against his lips, which he returned.

Then I wrapped my arm more snugly around his waist, and together, we turned to go back inside.


End file.
